A Thief's Game
by FantasyBard
Summary: As a mysterious figure from the shadows taunts Sherlock with a series of impossible puzzles and cases, Brenna becomes swept up in the great game. Little could she suspect that she has been playing this game for longer than she knows. And in the conflict between consulting detective and consulting criminal, there can be only one winner. SHERLOCK/OC. Full summary inside.
1. Domestic Disharmony

Hello, to all readers new and old. Here is my third installment of A Thief's Life. This takes place during the episode The Great Game. Things are really going to start to heat up as new mysteries and old questions are unsurfaced. Sherlock and Brenna also begin to deal with the changes in their relationship, both physical and emotional. I hope that you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC. It belongs to the writers, actors, producers and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who created it. I am making no profit on this, aside from my own enjoyment.

Rates T for scenes sensuality/innuendo and scenes of a disturbing nature.

A Thief's Game, or The Great Game

The great game is about to begin. For some time, Sherlock Holmes has been expecting the mysterious figure of Moriarty to make some sort of move. As the criminal mastermind sets the consulting detective on a string of fiendishly difficult puzzles, he finds himself matching wits with a person who is as clever as himself, and infinitely more dangerous.

This seems all over the head of Sherlock professed girlfriend/partner, Brenna Ryan. Absorbed in a case of her own that involves a brilliantly forged Vermeer masterpiece, she believes that this fight has nothing to do with her. However, Sherlock finds that some things about this game force him to face his inner demons, and only Brenna can help him. In the end, Sherlock is beginning to find that he cannot win this game by himself.

But little does Brenna realize that she is a part of the game, and had been for along time. As she finds herself remembering the events of her father's funeral, her family's rejection and her arrest, she begins to find that there are more secrets than she could have suspected. But Moriarty knows them, and if Sherlock is going to play, so will Brenna, the stakes being equally high for them both.

Life is a game, and sometimes, there can only be one winner.

Domestic Harmony:

Brenna had known what she was getting into when she had started a relationship with Sherlock. She had known that he could be distant, rude, unthinking and completely clueless as to when he was giving offense. She had known that he was a very difficult man to get along with a great majority all of this time. She had known all of this, and yet, she still had gone into the relationship. Therefore, she really had no one to blame but herself when things went sour.

That was what she told herself logically, and most of the time it worked. However, there were times when her relationship with Sherlock defied all logic. And when that happened, well, it was safe to say that only friction could result.

Brenna had gone beyond angry that night when she arrived at 221B Baker St. Sherlock wasn't there, he was currently somewhere off in Minsk, for reasons she couldn't begin to fathom. However, she knew that he was coming home that evening, and she wanted to be there when he arrived.

Of course, Sherlock had not been at all aware of any sort of infringement on his part about the proper rules when it came to dating. He was almost completely ignorant of them. And chances are that he might not have cared about them at all. Brenna was normally quite willing and happy to teach him. However, this time, he had overlooked something that should have been so blatantly obvious that she had felt her patience snap.

Sherlock, therefore, had no idea of the imminent disaster that was impending for him when he walked into the living room and saw Brenna sitting there on the couch. "Brenna, hello. I wasn't expecting to find you here."

"Oh, weren't you, I would have expected it to be quite obvious."

"How did you know I would be home at this hour?"

"John told me that you would be getting home right around now. I wanted to be sure that I would be the first person to see you."

Sherlock stared hard at Brenna. Her eyes were narrowed and hard, posture stiff and unbending, and her fingers were drumming mechanically on the seat of the couch and her knee. Her breathing was also coming harder and faster than it normally did. Those weren't encouraging signs. Brenna was angry and when Brenna was angry, heads were liable to roll. "You're angry?"

"No, really? Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. Again, you impress me by your statement of the obvious."

"You're angry with me." It was a statement, not a question.

"Like hell I am, Sherlock. And don't you stand there and tell me that you have no idea what you did, Sherlock."

A long moment of positively awkward silence followed this statement. Brenna threw her hands up in the obvious frustration. "No, of course, you don't know. Why am I not surprised?"

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"I'll do more than that, Sherlock. I'll lay it out for you plain and simple; you stood me up last evening."

"I did?" said Sherlock, still totally uncomprehending.

"Yes, remember, we had dinner reservations at that restaurant I've been wanting to try. You somehow managed to get reservations, though I don't know how. I hurry there after an incredibly stressful day at work, hoping that I wasn't late, and I end up waiting for two hours I called you, I texted you and you didn't answer. I finally gave up and went home, only to see on your bog that you're in Belarus of all places."

"So, you consoled yourself with a pint of brownie batter chocolate ice cream and your well-worn, well-loved copy of the 1995 version of Pride and Prejudice."

"I'm not even going to ask you how you managed to figure that out."

"You always turn to Jane Austen when your depressed. She's your favorite novelist, as evidenced by all the additions of the novels you own and all the DVD's of her books. You own every version ever made. And the ice cream was a dead give away."

"I am seriously tempted to throw something at you right now." Growled Brenna, "Do you remember what happened the last time you called me fat?"

"I never said you were fat."

"Well, it was implied, which is just as worse."

"And I thought that you didn't care about such things."

Brenna momentarily wondered if she could get away with strangling Sherlock. Surely, if she could get a jury that comprised entirely of women, none of them would condemn her in the slightest. Taking several deep breaths, and trying to control herself, she said, "Why were you in Belarus?" She emphasized each word through gritted teeth.

"There was a possible case there, but it came to nothing. Domestic murder. The man gave himself away on the first interview. There was absolutely nothing to interest me."

"So, you stood me up, without a word, for a dud case?" said Brenna, in disbelief. "I might have been willing to give you a hearing if you had actually been involved with something important. This is just a greater insult."

Sherlock was beginning to feel himself becoming annoyed with Brenna's attitude. "Brenna, you know how important my work is to me. You now that I haven't had any cases for awhile. I thought that this one had potential on the surface. Not even I can always tell when something will be a complete flop."

"That's not the point, Sherlock."

"It that's not it, I would like to know what is." Said Sherlock, "And why are you getting so defensive? You've broken off dates before because of your work, and I haven't complained. Furthermore, the last two times we've planned on doing something, I haven't been able to make it, and you accepted it with good grace. Why on earth should this be any different?"

"Sherlock, those last two times, and all the other times either of us had to cancel, we at least had the decency to call and say we couldn't be there, this is totally different. You stood me up."

"The end result is still the same."

"Sherlock, how can you be so utterly dense? It's not the same at all. Do you have any idea how humiliated I felt when you didn't show up?"

"If your sense of self worth is so fragile that it requires me showing up for a date, than that is your problem."

Sherlock only realized how hurtful the words were until it was to late. Brenna's face became positively acidic, and the look of hurt which flashed in her eyes actually pierced Sherlock to the heart. But he couldn't take back the words, and he was to proud to apologize. Brenna, too, was to angry to see things sensibly.

And she didn't want Sherlock to see her cry. "You know, just forget it, Sherlock." She spat, "It was stupid of me to think that you, of all people, would see reason. Goodbye."

She pushed past him and hurried out the door. Sherlock heard the door slam approximately ten seconds later. That meant she hadn't lingered, but had literally flown down the steps to get away from him as fast as possible. The door also slammed shut, another indication that Brenna had left more angry than she had arrived. And when he stole a glance out the window, she was walking and hadn't even looked back.

As the silence sank in around him, Sherlock was left with a lingering sense of total disbelief. He and Brenna had just argued. Granted such a thing in and of itself would not have been strange; he and Brenna had fought several times. But they had always argued over things of consequence. This had been their first major argument dealing with a totally normal matter. He vaguely understood that showing up for dates was expected and that failing to do so without proper notice was a bad move. But he had honestly thought that such things would apply to him and Brenna. Well, he had just been taught differently. Clearly, Brenna did care.

So, did that mean that Brenna and he were turning into a normal couple? The very idea made him shudder. Granted, there had been some things about being a normal couple that he enjoyed, but that didn't mean he wanted their relationship to descend completely into the mundane. First, they were arguing about mixed dates. What would be next? Fighting about whose turn it was to cook dinner or take out the trash?

Sherlock might have been over panicking about such possibilities, but part of that could be blamed on his current state of mind. He had just returned from a case that had had no interest whatever and no possible prospects in the future. The truth was, Sherlock was bored. He could already feel that mind-numbing feeling weighing down on him, the kind that made him want to almost physically rip out of his skull. What made it worse that he had no one to be bored _with_. Sherlock wasn't actually the best of company when he was bored, but the old adage of misery loves company worked quite well in such situations.

Of course, since he had more or less alienated Brenna because of his stupidity, he faced the prospect of a long, dull evening on his own. How perfectly horrid.

It was this state of frenzied boredom that drove Sherlock to spray paint a smiley face on the wall, and shoot at it using John's gun. It was in the midst of this bizarre target practice that his flat mate came home. The arrival did nothing to help Sherlock's state of mind. He and John also got into a fight, about what Sherlock would not be able to remember afterwards, only that it centered around irrelevant things like the solar system and John's blog. However, it ended the same way, with Sherlock once more saying something stupid before he could stop himself, and John, like Brenna, storming out of the flat.

What was wrong with the world? Why did everything have to be so quiet, calm, and peaceful when Sherlock's life seemed to be losing all sense of cohesion? It wasn't fair that his life was so boring.

Then, the explosion took out the entire living room, and Sherlock's life suddenly became much more interesting.

* * *

I hope that you all enjoyed this first chapter of A Thief's Game. You got to love Sherlock being totally clueless. Not even Brenna could be totally patient with him. I am really looking forward to putting this story on-line and reading all your thoughts. Please read and review.

Next chapter: Brenna's case of a forged masterpiece takes a back seat when she sees that 221B has been taken out by an explosion. Making up is always the best part of arguing, plus some interaction with Mycroft and John.


	2. Making Amends

I am so sorry for the delay on this chapter. My life has been incredibly busy the last few weeks studying for finals and taking tests. But, this chapter is nice and long to make it up for it.

Making Amends:

The morning brought only a little relief for Brenna's state of mind. She may not have been as angry as she previously was, but she wasn't yet ready to go over to 221B and try to work things out.

She had more immediate problems, namely the current case that she and the rest of the white collar unit were working on. She was in deep undercover at the Hickman Gallery, one of the most prestigious art galleries in London. She was posing as the PA to the head curator, a woman by the name of Ramona Wenceslas. It had proven to be a thoroughly taxing assignment. Wenceslas was, to put it mildly, the boss from hell. She seemed to think that her word was gospel set in stone, and she did not like anyone contradicting her. In fact, she sometimes wondered if Wenceslas expected everyone to bow down in respect to her superior artistic judgment. After nearly two weeks of working for her, bowing, scraping and running hither and yon to meet her every petty need, Brenna was beginning to think that she would never complain about working for Alice and Scotland Yard again.

The very reason that they were investigating the Hickman Gallery, however, had become personal for her. It had all started with news that was, in and of itself, a blow to an artistic forger like herself. A few weeks before, Alice had gathered the rest of the team in the conference room. They had been expecting the usual round of insurance schemes, cheque fraud and forgery. However, they got something distinctly different.

"You're going to love this case, Brenna." Said Alice, as they all sat down. "It's right up your alley." On the conference room screen came up an image of a beautiful Vermeer masterpiece, depicting the West bank of London at night.

"I know that picture." Said Brenna, "It's legendary amongst art historians. It was never completed. The only copies that exist are actually based on preliminary sketches that he did. It's considered by many to be one of the tragedies of the art world that he never actually was able to paint it. It would have been one of his masterpieces."

"Well, it's not a theory anymore. Just a few weeks ago, the Hickman Gallery announced that they had discovered the painting, and that they would be exhibiting it in a few weeks, before auctioning it off."

"Wait a minute," said Patrick, "An old masterpiece by Vermeer, that wasn't even painted or completed, just happens to turn up in a gallery here in London, with no warning whatsoever? Seems a bit convenient."

"And the Hickman is a modern at gallery." Trevor remarked, "Why would they be interested in exhibiting a work by a painter who lived in the seventeenth century? Shouldn't they have passed it onto the National Gallery or something?"

"You still seem to think that the art world is a democratic establishment." Said Brenna, wryly, "You wouldn't believe how much deception and backbiting goes on amongst the so-called law-abiding curators of museums in order to get their hands on valuable pieces. Sometimes, the back room deals that they pull in order to get just one are almost worse than what we criminals go through to get them."

"And I'm afraid that those back-room deals might have gotten a little bit uglier." Said Alice, "We just received word from INTERPOL a few hours ago. They've been on the trail of a well-known forager in Argentina, who goes by the name of Hector Branson."

At the sound of the name, Brenna's head shot up. "Hector Branson?"

"You know him?" said Alice.

"Of course, everyone who works in smuggling rare forgeries knows the name. He's a legend, an absolute genius. He can fake any painter, any style, without breaking a sweat. He's also the most modest man you can imagine. Never keeps any of the money that he makes from the selling of his paintings, always gives it to the local orphanage in his community. It would almost be a tragedy to have him brought in."

Alice looked at Brenna gravely. "I'm afraid that he's dead, Brenna."

Brenna's eyes grew wide with shock. "What?"

"Officers who were investigating his home found his body there yesterday evening. They managed to confirm that he was Hector Branson, and that he just signed a major deal with someone for his paintings. They found a lot of e-mails from an unknown buyer. His cell-phone records also indicate that he had been receiving and making a lot of phones calls, again to a number that couldn't be traced, but one that had its origin here in London."

"So, you're thinking that whoever he was making this deal with didn't want to share the money, so they had him killed?" sad Trevor.

"It's a plausible explanation." Said Alice, "The last Vermeer to be discovered and auctioned off went for over fifteen million pounds. If this painting turns out to be by Vermeer, it could run well over fifty million. That's a lot of money for one person to have."

"And whoever made that deal probably works in the Hickman." Sad Trevor.

"Yes, our primary subject is this woman." A new image appeared on the screen, this time of a woman in her late forties, with a severe profile, long sharp nose, black hair and a wide, thin mouth. "Ramona Wenceslas, curator of the Hickman gallery."

"She looks mean enough to kill someone." Said Patrick.

"Who knows, she might have." Said Alice, "We don't have anything substantial against Miss Wenceslas, but there have been questionable transactions going at that gallery for some time. Five years ago, they were under investigation for the possession of a group of statues that had been obtained illegally from a museum in New York and sold on the Black Market. A year ago, they were investigated for the same offence, that time for a Picasso that was later proved to be a fake."

"And why are they still even open?" said Trevor.

"They must have some had some pretty good connections in the Black Market." Said Brenna, "If a fence can find a museum that's willing to look the other way, that museum normally has some pretty powerful people in their pocket to help them cover their tracks."

"But this is the first time that a direct trail could lead from them to a murder." Said Alice, "We can prove the painting is a fake, we have them."

"That sounds rather difficult." Said Trevor, "According to this report, the gallery isn't letting anyone see the painting until it goes on display. The only people who have looked it over are the scholars who are in their employ, and would probably say whatever they are told, if the price is right."

"Exactly, Trevor." Said Alice, "We need someone from the outside, someone who is an expert in Vermeer, and having made a few herself, could spot a fake of the old master a mile away."

"Let me guess, me." Said Brenna.

"No, I was thinking of someone entirely different. Of course, I mean you. I just didn't want to come right out and say it. I know how much you love to advertise your own gifts."

"Thanks. But, how am I going to get in to see this painting?"

"It turns out that Miss Wenceslas just fired her personal assistant. You'll be taking over."

"Oh great, I can't wait. You'll have to cut my anklet for this one."

"Don't worry; we'll have it back on you as soon as you come out of the gallery every day. As for the rest of you, I want to start researching any connections that the Hickman might have to dealers who would market in this kind of forgery. Make sure to look on the shady side of the law."

As the rest of the white collar unit proceeded out of the room, Alice noticed that Brenna was lingering, and there was a troubled look on her face. "Are you all right?" She asked.

Brenna shook her head. "I knew Hector. He was as gentle as a lamb; he would never have hurt a fly. He took pride in his work. To have him end like this, it's just not right. It makes where I cam from seem a suddenly very dark place."

Alice put a hand on Brenna's shoulder. "We'll find out who's behind this, Brenna."

"I certainly hope so." Sad Brenna, "Because right now, this case is personal for me."

So had begun the case of the Vermeer fake, and it had proven to be a rather difficult endeavourer. Not only was Miss Wenceslas the boss from hell, she was also paranoid to a fault. It seemed that she didn't allow anyone in to even view the Vermeer, not even Brenna herself, though the whole reason that Wenceslas had apparently hired her was because she was an expert in Vermeer. It was almost as if she were afraid that the whole operation would be blown if anyone even so much as got a peek at the Vermeer. That meant it was rather difficult for Brenna to come up with any evidence against her. It was maddening, knowing that the clues were in the building that she went into every day, but being so far from her goal.

She was getting ready to go to the Hickman the morning after her fight with Sherlock, and a report had come on about the Vermeer. Brenna was watching with some interest, though the report was mainly all hype, and so she did not miss the story that came on immediately after it. There had been an explosion in a house a few blocks from where she lived, and Brenna nearly dropped her coffee when she recognized Baker St. and the row of flats right across the street from 221B. There was a great deal of damage and it seemed that the extent of the explosion had been far-reaching. And had Sherlock…

Brenna immediately forgot all her anger and annoyance against Sherlock, and was suddenly terrified that something had happened to him. Getting her things together a lot quicker than she normally did, she was at 221B in the next fifteen minutes. The police and fire squad were there, and even though they were technically not supposed to let anyone in, Brenna made a rather convincing show of saying that she lived there. Fooling guards was a rather important talent that she had picked up during her years as a thief, and she had never been gladder that those skills still were sharp.

"Sherlock, Sherlock," she called out, as she rushed up the steps, only to be greeted by the tones of Sherlock's violin. Receiving some comfort from this, she nonetheless hurried up the steps until she came to the door of the living room. Sure enough, there was Sherlock standing by the windows, playing his violin. It was a scene that she had witnessed any number of times, except that the windows had been blown out from the force of the blast, and the openings boarded up. There were pieces of assorted debris all over the floor that Sherlock hadn't bothered to pick up.

He actually seemed surprised to see her. "Brenna, what are you doing?"

"What do you mean, Sherlock? There was an explosion."

"So, there was." Said Sherlock, looking around at the debris surrounding him. It seemed that he thought such an event to be no cause of excitement. "But why would that bother you? After last night, I was certain that you would be avoiding me."

Brenna didn't know whether to be exasperated or relieved. She shook her head, "Sherlock, you are just… How can you…" Finally having enough of trying to make sense out of Sherlock's idea of logic, she just decided to go with the emotional response. She crossed the room and hugged Sherlock tightly. "I'm just glad that you're all right."

For a moment, Sherlock was frozen wit surprise. This kind of spontaneous display of affection was still somewhat new to him, and he always needed a moment to decide how he would react. He had been fairly certain after their fight last night, he wouldn't be seeing Brenna for at least another week. That's the way that it normally went. However, this was a better outcome than what he had been expecting, and he was happy that things were sorted out this quickly. And quite frankly, after the mind-numbing boredom of last night, having Brenna here in his arms was a welcome change.

Tentatively (as he still didn't know whether or not she might suddenly change her mind), he put his arms around her, and returned the embrace. He assumed he had done the right thing, as he heard Brenna sigh happily and settle deeper into his chest. Strange things, hugs. In essence, they were really nothing more than the action of grabbing someone ad throttling them. In nearly any other situation, it would be considered a crude form of assault. But, Sherlock had to admit that he found the affects to be quite calming. He could feel his heartbeat growing calmer, and a general sense of well-being seemed settled over him. And all this from a simple embrace. Very curious. This was why repeated experimentation in physical intimacy were so important. One never knew what one would find out.

"Sherlock, I can hear you thinking." Brenna's face was still buried in his chest and he wasn't looking at her, but he could hear the smile in her voice.

"What?"

Brenna lifted her head to smile into his face. "You're analyzing. I can hear the wheels in your head turning. I can practically hear them clicking into place every single observation that you make while I'm hugging you."

"No, you can't." said Sherlock.

"Yes, I can. Don't worry. I don't take it personally. I actually find it rather sexy."

Sherlock looked at her with a thoroughly perplexed expression. "You think it's sexy?" He had heard his deductions described as many thing by many people; sexy had never even been close to one of them.

"Yes. You're always in the moment. Most guys that I've hugged in my time are only figuring out ways to shag me afterward. I really do appreciate it."

Sherlock honestly did not know what he could say to that. "Sherlock, you're thinking again. All you have to say is thank you."

"Oh, thank you."

She regarded him with a smirk. "You really are starting to get a hang for this, Sherlock. There might be hope for you yet." She pulled down Sherlock lips to her own. Sherlock obviously wasn't expecting this move, but once he realized what she was doing, he more than gladly submitted. She was relived that he was all right, and that she could make up somewhat for the fight they had had last night. Funny, she couldn't remember what had made her so upset, but it hardly seemed important now. She knew that Sherlock could have been killed in that blast, and the very idea of that happening was one that she didn't want to contemplate.

That thought prompted Brenna to pull Sherlock closer to her, and run her tongue along his lips. Sherlock gasped in shock at the feeling and his mouth opened on instinct. Brenna took full advantage of that and slipped her tongue into his mouth, tasting Sherlock a bit more intimately than she normally allowed herself in these sorts of situations. Sherlock felt his heart rate suddenly increase and the endorphins pumping through his blood stream. He loved moments like this, and he had grown to savor them. For so long he had avoided the more physical displays of affection that came so normally to other people. He had never thought that they would ever be essential to him, but ever since starting his relationship with Brenna, he had really come to find that such moments were really special, and really did mean something when they were shared with the right person.

"Am I interrupting something?" The familiar, condescending voice of Mycroft Holmes case a rather cold pall over what would have been a rather delightful hour of snogging, Sherlock was certain. As it was, Sherlock reluctantly pulled away from Brenna and turned around to face his brother, who was standing in the doorway with his trademark umbrella and disapproving expression.

"Mycroft," Sherlock greeted neutrally, but still holding his arm tightly around his waist, "So nice of you to come around this morning. What brings you here at this hour of the morning?"

"I was in the neighborhood. I thought that I would drop by."

"It wouldn't have anything to do with concern." Said Brenna, "After all, Sherlock was the victim of a gas leak just last night. You wouldn't be coming to check up his safety would you?"

Mycroft viewed Brenna with almost acute distaste. "That's not necessarily the main reason." He said, with a tone that told Brenna that she had actually hit pretty close to the mark with Mycroft being even a little worried about his brother. "I actually came here to talk to Sherlock about something rather specific. As you have no doubt come to check up on Sherlock, and having ascertained that he is quite all right, in your own unique way, you can move along now."

Brenna smiled sweetly at Mycroft and sat down rather definitely in way one of the chairs. "Actually, I don't have anywhere to be for awhile. I'm sure that whatever you have to say you can say in front of me. I am the soul of discretion, after all."

"I'm sure you are." Said Mycroft sourly.

"Mycroft, either you talk with Brenna here, or you leave." Said Sherlock, as he sat down in his usual chair, presenting a united front against Mycroft, and Mycroft, with all the power of the British government that he had, knew that it was a front he couldn't hope to fight against.

About twenty minutes later, when John arrived at the flat, he was met by the sight of Sherlock and Mycroft having a pointed stare-off, neither of them budging an inch from their respective positions, and the tension absolutely palpable. It might have been a very glacial scene were it not for Brenna. She was seated by Sherlock's chair, indicating very clearly whose side she was on. However, she was trying very hard not to smile, and it was clear from her dancing green eyes that she was watching this entire scene with very real amusement.

"I saw the explosion on the news." Said John, who was able to tell at a glance that Sherlock had been relatively unaffected by the explosion.

"Oh, this?" said Sherlock, in an offhand manner, glancing around at the wreckage, as though he had just now noticed it. "Oh yes, gas leak, apparently." He then turned his attention back to Mycroft and said, "I can't."

"You can't?" repeated Mycroft, skeptically.

"The stuff I've got is too big, I can't spare the time." Sad Sherlock, airily.

Brenna regarded Sherlock with a raised eyebrow, smiling slightly. Sherlock was definitely trying to lie, trying being the operative word and he was failing miserably.

The answer was hardly a surprise, as it was the answer that Sherlock always gave when Mycroft came to him for help (initially, at least), but Mycroft was not really in the slightest mood to play Sherlock's regular games. "Never mind your trivia; this is a matter of national importance."

Sherlock, not wanting to let any opportunity pass of egging his brother on, said, "How's the diet?"

"Fine." Said Mycroft, through half gritted teeth, which showed his real annoyance at Sherlock's mule-headedness, not to mention Sherlock seemed to have hit a nerve.

Brenna suddenly began coughing, a vain attempt to hide her strangled laughter. Mycroft glared at her, briefly wondering if there might be a way for him to edge around his hands off policy when it came to Brenna. Unfortunately, such an idea would be as much wishful thinking as it was impossible, considering how surprisingly attached Sherlock seemed to be becoming to the former thief.

"Maybe you can get through to him, John." Said Mycroft, after taking a moment to rearrange his face into a perfectly amicable expression.

"Sorry?" said John, in confusion.

"I'm afraid that my brother can be quite intransigent."

"Really? Is that the word you would use? I would say stubborn is more like it?" said Brenna.

"If it's so important, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock said, pointedly.

"No, no," said Mycroft, dismissively, "I can't possibly be away from the office, right, not with the Korean elections…" He stopped and then smiled knowingly. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this, it requires… leg work." The last two words were said with such disgust and loathing that the every idea seemed to be the most repellent thing in the world to him.

"You know, that diet of yours might go a little smoother if you did add some physical activity to your routine. Isn't that true, John? You're the medical expert in the room."

John looked from Brenna to Mycroft. "I really would prefer not to say."

"How's Sarah, John? Sherlock asked, though not because he particularly cared about Sarah's well-being, more that he just wanted to drag in any inane topic to further irritate Mycroft. "How was the Lilo?"

"Sofa, Sherlock, it was the sofa." Said Mycroft, without so much as looking up from his watch.

Sherlock glanced at John. "Oh, yes, of course." He seemed almost disappointed that his ploy had failed by Mycroft out deducing him.

John, on the other hand, was floored by the being the subject of two Holmes' deductions. "How...? Know what, I don't want to know."

"Wise move, John. You don't want to get these two in a competition. It's not a pretty sight, believe me. Sherlock always loses." Now it was Sherlock's turn to give Brenna an annoyed glare. "I'm only stating facts, Sherlock."

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became… pals." Said Mycroft, "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine?"

"I'm never bored." Said John, truthfully, and without confirming or denying Mycroft's statement. Yes, Sherlock could be a royal pain, impossible to reason with, rude and inconsiderate, and then, of course, there was that nasty little habit of finding body parts like a severed head in the kitchen. But, truthfully, John wouldn't have traded any of that. Sherlock gave him a purpose, and John believed that he counted him as a friend.

"Good, that's good isn't it?" said Mycroft, without a great deal of enthusiasm.

Mycroft had had enough of trying to get through to Sherlock, and he decided that John might yield some more immediate results. When Sherlock snubbed the folder, he turned to John and said, "Andrew West, Westie to his friends. Civil servant, found dead on the tracks of a Battersea Station this morning."

"Suicide."

"It would appear so."

"But?"

"But?" repeated Mycroft.

"You wouldn't be here if this was were just an accident." Said John, that earned him an understated grin of approval Sherlock. He obviously liked it when John proved he could be insightful.

Mycroft even had to give John a little bit of credit for catching on so quickly. "The government is working on a new set of missile defense plans, the Bruce-Pardington Program, it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

"That wasn't very smart." Remarked John.

"Yes, it makes me sleep better at night knowing that competent men like Mycroft are protecting this country." Said Brenna.

Mycroft, to his credit, didn't rise to the bait. "It's not the only copy."

"Top secret?" John inquired.

"Very. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands."

"No, of course you can't." said Brenna, with a return of her former sarcasm, "It would perhaps be the end of the world if that happened."

"Sherlock, you need to find and recover those plans." A tense moment of silence followed, as Sherlock and Mycroft stared each other down, neither of them willing to budge from their positions. "Don't make me order you."

Sherlock was nonchalant. "I'd like to see you try."

"Oh, do try Mycrooft, it would be so entertaining."

Mycroft was swiftly losing patience with Brenna. "Am I to understand that you find serious matters such as this amusing, Miss Ryan?"

"Let me put it this way, Mycroft. Between you, John, and Sherlock, I sometimes wonder I still need to own a telly."

Mycroft did not seem at all amused by this comment, however he still managed to keep at least some of his dignity. "Think it over, Sherlock." He said, as he put the file on Andrew West aside and turned to say goodbye to the one person in the room that had not gotten on his nerves in the past half hour. "Goodbye, John." He said, with a strangely knowing smle. "See you real soon."

Mycroft exited the room, followed by the screeching sounds of Sherlock's violin. "Why did you lie?" John asked, once Mycroft was gone. Sherlock looked at him, questioningly. "You've got nothing on, not a single case. That's why the walll took a pounding. Why did you tell Mycroft you were busy?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Oh, right, sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

"You may have missed your calling, John." said Brenna, "You should have been a psychiatrist." She got to her feet and said, "Well, as much as I would love to sit here and listen to Sherlock talk ad infintum about the deplorable state of crime in the city of London, I have to be getting to work. I'm late as it is." Seeing Sherlock's sour espression, she laughed and kissed him on the cheek. "Stop being so juvenile, Sherlock. You might be surprised. Today could actually be exciting."

No sooner had she said the words and was heading out the door than Sherlock's mobile went off. "Sherlock Holmes." His eyes instantly brightened and a smile appeared on his face. "Of course, how could I refuse?" He leaped to his feet, the lethargy vanishing, replaced by the all to familiar manic energy of Sherock's mind at work. "It's Lestrade, I've been summoned."

"See, I told you. Speak of the devil."

"John, come on."

John actually seemed surprised. "You want to me to come with you."

"Of course." Said Sherlock, as though it should have been completely expected. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

The thing that one had to realize when dealing with Sherlock Holmes was that was not ordinary anything. He did not even apologize with the words "I'm sorry." Instead, he threw off comments that seemed to be only half thought out and dismissive. But, only those who really made a point to get to know Sherlock saw the latent apology in such off-hand statements. It wouldn't have worked with anyone else, but somehow, it seemed to fit Sherlock perfectly.

John was able to hear that Sherlock was trying to amends for their domestic disharmony the night before. And for him, it was quite enough.

* * *

So, Sherlock and John go one way, and Brenna another. But, of course, we know that their paths will cross eventually. In the meantime, please read and review to tell me what you think of this chapter.

Net chapter: We begin the flashback for this story, two and a half years before. Brenna returns to confront her family at the funeral of her father, but they are not willing to listen to her. However, she just happens to run into a good Samaritan with a kind word for her, or perhaps a devil in disguise.


	3. Flashback I: Rejection

Flashback I: Rejection:

_Two and a half years previously…_

She should never have come back. She should have known that nothing would have changed. She had been a fool to even think that her family would welcome her back with open arms. They had driven her away and she could not blame them. She had been the one who had abandoned them. She wasn't even a part of the family anymore. She should never have come back.

She had heard about her father's death in Paris. The news had devastated her. He had died in a freak car accident; the car had rolled on a dark street in the middle of the night. The car had caught fire, and by the time the ambulance had arrived, all that was found of Olivier Ryan's death was ash. It simply didn't seem possible. Her father was dead. He had always seemed too big and strong, so permanent. Brenna had always been her father's favorite. He had always called her his Little Raven, saying that she possessed all the qualities of his favorite bird: intelligence, keen and quick senses, and loyalty. The loyalty she had failed miserably in, she realized. She had come back to try and make amends, to try and apologize. But fate had been cruel to her in yet another sense. It would not even give her the chance to say a proper goodbye.

It had all started when she arrived at the church where the funeral was being held. She had been in no imaginings about the reception she would get. That was why she had arrived so early, hoping that she would be able to avoid her family. But that was not to be. The very first person that she ran into just as she was entering the church was none other than her older sister, Martha Hammond.

Martha had been the middle child of the family. Motherly and kind, from the start she had always been the peacekeeper between the stronger-willed Ryan sisters. She had married early, and Brenna knew that she had three children. Now, as she came face to face with the sister that she had not seen in four years, all that Brenna saw was shock, but yet no hostility.

"Brenna?" she said, after a moment, almost questioningly, as if she could not believe that she was actually seeing her in the flesh. "Is it really you?"

"Yes, I suppose that it is." Said Brenna, cautiously. She knew that she could not expect grand displays of forgiveness and reconciliation. Such things only occurred in stories. But she could not deny that a part of her had hoped that maybe, just maybe, she could start to mend something. And if that were the case, she was almost relived that Martha was the first one to meet her. Martha would probably not forgive her immediately, but maybe she would at least be willing to give her a fair hearing.

"What are you doing here?" Martha asked, still unable to believe what she was seeing.

"I heard about dad. I was just coming to pay my respects. Don't worry, I don't intend on staying for long. I would hate to give the wrong impression."

She tried to move past Martha to go into the church, but she intercepted her. "Brenna, wait. You have to be careful; mom and Kathleen are already-"

At this very moment, the church doors opened and two more women emerged. The first was Brenna's mother, Nora. She had long, black hair with the only the barest hint of silver. Her eyes were dark brown, and shone with an inner light of strength. Her face was not necessarily beautiful, but it was the force of her personality that most people noticed, the steely resolve which had made her able to withstand the loneliness that went with being a policeman's wife. But, those hardships had given her a pride in her family that very little could shake, save the actions of one within it. The other was Brenna's oldest sister, Kathleen, who was the most like her mother in looks and personality. Unfortunately, her pride in her family was not always tempered with patience. Kathleen was sometimes too quick to judge and to slow to forgive.

These were the forces that Brenna now found herself up against, and as family looked upon family after a gulf of four years and who knows how many crimes on her side, she had the awful sensation that all of her hopes for a reconciliation were about to be utterly shattered.

Silence came upon the church steps for several painful moments, as Kathleen and Nora saw and recognized Brenna, and the fires of judgment began to burn in their eyes. "What the hell are you doing here?" Kathleen finally exploded, as she advanced on Brenna, the rage clearly showing in her eyes.

"Kathleen, please listen to me." Brenna pleaded.

"Listen to you, all right, let's do that." Said Kathleen, sarcastically, "Should we listen to how you just left all of us without a word, how you've been gallivanting around Europe, stealing everything that you can get your hands on, how we didn't hear anything from you. Is that what you want us to listen to?"

"Don't bother trying to defend yourself, Brenna." Said Nora, when Brenna cast a desperate glance in her direction. Her voice was cool and detached, as if she were looking at the scene from far away, as if Brenna was not worth her concern anymore. "We have all heard it, many times. You dragged your father's name through the dust and his career suffered as a result of it. He ended up having to take the tougher assignments, the most dangerous ones, just so he could pay the bills. Why, there were times when he would not be home for months on end, undercover somewhere. He never told me nothing of his cases, but I could clearly see the toll that they were taking on him. You did that to him, that's what killed him."

"Mom," said Martha, who was standing between the two parties, caught in the middle between wanting to reach out to Brenna and not wanting to cause her sister and mother anymore pain. "Dad died in a car accident, coming home from the pub. His death had nothing to do with a case."

"Don't lay dad's death on me, mom." Said Brenna, who felt her own anger flaring at her mother accusation. "You know that he always took the most difficult assignments. It's what he was good at, everyone knew that. You never objected to any affliction they might have had on his health."

"You have a lot of nerve even showing up here." Said Kathleen, "Do you have any idea how much you tore dad apart during the last few hours. Do you know how much he worried about you?"

"We all worried about you." Said Martha, who was trying desperately to keep this argument from escalating into an ugly scene.

"Speak for yourself, Martha." Spat Kathleen, her eyes flaming, "I stopped worry about your safety and well-being a long time ago. You don't deserve to be here, Brenna."

"Yes, I do." Said Brenna, "He was my father as well as yours."

"He might have been your father, but you stopped being his daughter when you stopped doing what he believed in." said Nora, with the same cool, detached manner that she had first greeted Brenna with. "You abandoned us all Brenna. And for what? You have nothing to show for your life of crime, and now you show up here, dishonoring your father's memory and his profession with your presence."

Brenna's heart was being ripped out of her chest, the more her mother spoke. What made it worse was that there was nothing she could say in her own defense. She had never felt so keenly the guilt of her crimes. A mother's sharp rebuke is more effective than any courtroom judge. And for Brenna, it was even worse. She saw no forgiveness in either her mother or Kathleen. Only Martha seemed to be somewhat softened by Brenna's situation, but she was clearly not on her side, not wanting to speak up in the face of her mother and sister's hostility.

"Leave, Brenna." Said Nora, "There is nothing for you here." With that last, cold rejection, she turned and walked heavily into the church.

Kathleen was not slow to follow her. It seemed that even being in Brenna's presence was nothing short of odious to her. However, she still stopped long enough to deliver one last cutting remark. "Do you realize now that family is far more important than money?"

"I am back because of family." Protested Brenna, "I came back because father died. I know that it's too late, but I wanted to try and make things right."

"And did you think we would all welcome you back with open arms? Life isn't like that, Brenna. We read what we sow."

"I never expected you to welcome me back." Said Brenna, "I only wanted to pay my respects. I thought that you would at least see why that was important to me."

Kathleen glared at her, before replying. "Well, you thought wrong." With that, Kathleen to disappeared into the church.

Brenna stood frozen for a moment, to numb with grief and surprise to say anything. She had never dreamed that something like this would happen. She had never thought that her family would reject her to the point where she would be barred from her own father's funeral. That was the ultimate pain for her. And she knew that she had no right to complain. She shouldn't have expected anything less. It was all she deserved. She had been a fool that coming back like this would have changed anything. She should never have come back.

She felt the sharp sting of the tears on her eyes. She turned sharply away and began to walk down the steps of the church. "Brenna, wait, please." Said Martha, trying to stop her.

"Why? You heard them yourself. I don't deserve to be here."

"Brenna, please. They're grieving. They're in shock. They don't know what they're saying."

"But the sentiment is still the same. You can't deny it."

Martha grabbed her arm. "Brenna, don't leave. You can stay in the back"

"Away from prying eyes, you mean." Brenna saw the look of hurt flash across her eyes; Martha's offer had been genuine. "Martha, I'm sorry. But they're right. I have no place here, and I won't disrupt dad's funeral. I owe him that much, at least."

Brenna didn't stay to wait for Martha might have said next. She just wanted to leave before anymore pain came her direction.

She was so distracted by her emotions that she wasn't looking properly where she was going. She didn't see the man who was in her way until she had run straight into him. "Oh, I'm sorry." She mumbled in apology, not even bothering to look at who she had run into.

Se had been intending to make a quick get away, but the man's voice stopped. "Are you are all right?" The question was asked with such a tone of compassion and genuine concern, that Brenna found herself stopped in her tracks, and her eyes drawn to the man's face. He was slightly taller than herself, short black hair and dark eyes that matched the concerned tone of his voice.

It was the first real expression of understanding that Brenna had encountered through the whole of that day. The callous rejection of her family had left her shaken and scarred. Perhaps she could be forgiven for letting her guard down after such an event. "I…I'm not."

"What's the matter? Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"No, nothing. I just need to be left alone for awhile."

The man did not move away, but instead, his eyes showed recognition, and he said, "You're Brenna Ryan, aren't you?"

Brenna's face snapped up to meet his, her eyes flashing with uncertainty. "What? How did you know?"

"I know your father." He said, "I worked with him."

"You're with the police."

"Not officially. I'm more like a consultant." Brenna, again due to her emotions, really didn't have the presence of mind to question this, or just what type of consultant this man was supposed to be. In any case, he didn't give her much chance, as he continued speaking. "He was a good man, your father. I can't imagine what you must be going through. This must be a terrible blow for you."

Brenna hardly knew what to say. To find such an understanding in a complete stranger when she hadn't found it in her own family was overwhelming to say the least. She suddenly felt very grateful to this man for even speaking to her; perhaps good Samaritans really did exist. "I wish that I could have been here to say goodbye. We were so close."

"I know, he often talked about you. Said that you were his favorite of your family, his little raven. He loved you a great deal."

"He did?" Brenna could not help feeling some doubt. After all, what if what her family said had been true? What is she really had disappointed her father?

"Oh no, to the last, he said that he was proud of you. He always said you were the most like him, in everything."

These words lifted at least some of the burden from Brenna's soul. She knew when someone was lying, and this man clearly wasn't. She didn't think that he actually could tell a lie. This man, whoever he was, had a good soul. She smiled at him, and said, with a deep gratitude, "Thank you. You don't know what those words mean to me."

"My pleasure. Again, you have my sincerest sympathies."

Brenna could only nod her head, before she turned and walked away from the church. She did not stop to think there were several inconsistencies in that last encounter. If the man had been so close to his father as he had been suggesting, why had he not asked her why she wasn't staying for the funeral? How could he have not been aware of her past? Why had he never even told her his name?

The truth was that Brenna had made a terrible mistake. The stranger who had stopped her was no Good Samaritan, and he was not a good man. Lying was an art form for him, along with every sort of sin on the earth, the more twisted and cruel, the better he liked it.

And he had known a lot about Olivier Ryan. But Olivier had found out a little bit too much about him. That was why he had killed him. That was why he was here now, not to mourn, but to watch in quiet satisfaction at the pain he had caused. Oliver Ryan, even beyond the grave, would learn that one did not lightly cross James Moriarty.

Brenna did not know it, but she had just met the most brilliant, dangerous criminal mastermind in the whole of Europe, and the man responsible for her father's death. Nor would it be the last time that she ever saw him.

* * *

This was kind of a difficult chapter for me to write. I don't like writing scenes where families are torn apart like this; coming from a close family myself, they really do tear my heart out. But I really felt a need to show where Brenna comes from in terms of her past, and why it is so difficult for her to open to and trust other people. As well as how much of a difference Sherlock has made in her life.

We also have a rather interesting connection established between Moriarty and Brenna. It seems that Brenna is about to learn some more painful truths about what her father was really up to. Please read and review to tell me what you think.

Next chapter: Shane checks up with Brenna on her covert investigation of what Alice might be up to with Mycroft, and some tough revelations about the supposedly accidental death of her father. We also learn how Alice arrested Brenna, and the beginning of their partnership. But when Brenna overhears something she shouldn't have, the seeds of doubt are sewn.


	4. Questionable Homicide

Here is a double helping of Sherlock for the Christmas season. Enjoy!

Questionable Homicide:

_Present Day…_

Yet another day of tense undercover work followed for Brenna. She had to admit that she was starting to feel a little frustrated. All she could really get out of Ramona was that she was tense about something. She still hadn't even gotten a look at the Vermeer, which was quite annoying. She was sure that she would be able to prove it a fake if she only got fifteen minutes in front of it. But Ramona was adamant. She was paranoid, and becoming more so even as the date of the unveiling drew closer. Brenna knew that paranoid people made very dangerous people, regardless of what profession they happened to be a part of.

At the end of that day, she returned to her flat, tired and frustrated. However, she didn't need to open the door to know that someone was already inside. The door was unlocked, and when she came in, she found that Shane was sitting on the couch, watching the news. "You'd think that the BBC would have caught onto this fake Vermeer." He said, gesturing to the story which was currently playing on the screen. "All these shots of the Vermeer would have tipped someone off."

"Those paintings are well-known copies of what the painting might have looked like." Said Brenna, "They don't do us any good. And by the way, thank you for letting yourself in."

"I did knock, Brenna." Said Shane, "But you didn't answer. At that stage, I figured that not saying no meant yes. You know that's the rule. How else did you manage to steal those Russian statuettes out of St. Petersburg?"

"And how many times do I have to tell you that bringing up previous crimes isn't helping me?" said Brenna, "If you don't mind me asking, what exactly are you doing here, besides drinking my wine and monopolizing my dog's affections?"

Shane looked down at Lily, who was curled up beside Shane beside him, obviously enjoying the attention she was getting. "What can I say; I have a way with the ladies."

"Right, and which of your three divorced wives would agree with you, I wonder."

Shane turned off the telly. "Guilty as charged, only because I don't want to get involved in that conversation."

"So?" said Brenna, as she sat down.

"You remember when you asked me to keep an eye out for any suspicious behavior on Alice's part."

Brenna groaned. "Yes, and I'm almost regretting asking you. I should have known better, considering that you delight in looking everywhere for conspiracy theories. You spent five weeks in Scotland looking for the Loch Ness Monster, and that's you on a mild day."

"Hey, I still say that I saw the Loch Ness Monster. It ate nearly half my clothes. But, give me some credit, Brenna. I have been trying to keep an open mind about this, and I've found out more from pretty reliable sources. Its stuff you nee to hear, so just listen, okay?"

"Fine, but I won't promise anything.

"For starters, what do you know about one of the last cases that your father was working?"

"What?" asked Brenna, puzzled, "What has that got to do with anything?"

"Just answer the question."

"Well, I don't know rally. He was hardly in any position to tell me, and the rest of my family wasn't exactly forthcoming."

"All right, but surely your sister, Elizabeth, was able to tell you something."

Brenna tried to bury her mounting irritation and said, "She did say something the last time we saw each other. According to her, dad was involved in some sort of secret case at the police department. He couldn't even tell mom anything about it."

"So, none of you knew anything about what he was doing the last few months before he died."

"Well, when dad died, rumors did begin circulating, and you know how it works with police families. Apparently, dad was investigating some sort of gang or terrorist cell in Ireland, responsible for the bombings in 2006." She looked at Shane, "You think there's any truth to those rumors?"

"I don't know, Brenna." Said Shane, "However, I have a friend who works with the Dublin Police Department. He owes me a favor. I got in touch with him, and had him send over your father's case file."

"My dad's what?" said Brenna, in disbelief, "What good will that to? Shane, my father was killed in a car accident. It won't make any difference."

For a long moment, Shane stared at Brenna, a serious expression on his face. "Brenna, this is going to be difficult for you to hear, but your father wasn't killed in a car accident. He was murdered."

Brenna could not believe what she had just heard. "Murdered? What do you mean?"

"Brenna, this friend of mine was one of he first on the scene when your father's car accident was called in. he saw clear signs of foul play. The file which was originally put together was one of homicide, but he was told by his superior to treat the case as an accident. If he didn't, he would have lost his job."

Brenna was slightly by what she was hearing. She had no idea, had never even considered that he father could be murdered. And that someone was trying to cover it up was even more disturbing. "Why would someone want to cover up my father's murder, if there ever was one? He was well liked. No one on the department ever had anything but the highest respect for him."

"I'm afraid my contact didn't know, and neither did I. the orders sounded like they came from somewhere pretty high up. But he always kept the original report around, just in case." He held it out to Brenna. "It's all in here; I think you need to see it."

Brenna took the file, with more than a little hesitation. "Shane, you still haven't told me what any of this has to do with Alice. I can't see the connection."

"Because I think that she's known about this all along, and she hasn't told you."

"That's absurd. Why wouldn't she tell me, if she suspected this? How would she even know about it?"

"I don't know for certain, but I have my theories. I've been picking up a lot of activity between her and that Umbrella Man."

"His name is Mycroft, and what has that got do with anything?"

"I don't know, but Brenna, you have to admit that this all feels a bit more like a convenience than anything else. This guy is great at covering his tracks, but I've still been able to pick out the moments of his conversation. Your name and that of your father have come up a lot recently. They both seem very concerned about keeping in the dark about something."

Brenna shook her head. "Shane, I can't believe that about Alice. I can trust her, I know."

"I'm not disputing that. I'm just saying that maybe you should be open to the possibility that there is something she isn't trusting you with, whatever her reasons might be."

"And if I did, than what would you suggest I do?" demanded Brenna, "Waltz in and ask politely if she knows that my father was murdered? I'm sure that would go over well."

"Brenna, please calm down. You honestly think that I would have given you this information if I didn't want to try and help you. If your father was really murdered, than I felt you had a right to know."

Brenna drew in a deep breath. "I understand, Shane, and it's not that I'm ungrateful, but this is just something, something that I had never thought would happen. I don't know how I should go about it."

"My advice, don't do anything. Just pay attention, pay really close attention. You might find out more than you think if you do." He got to his feet and headed for the door, intending to leave Brenna alone to contemplate what she had just heard. However, at the last second, he turned and said, "Oh, by the way, that iron bitch you're working with. She might be paranoid about the painting being discredited as a fake, but not even she could let it just sit there without other pairs of watching her. Ask one of the security guards on the night shift. You might learn something."

With that, Shane left his tenant to consider what he had said, and all the implications that it had.


	5. Flashback II: Arrest

Flashback II: Arrest:

_Two and a half years previously…_

Brenna was not one to easily give up. And in this case, though she had been denied a chance to even mourn her father at his funeral, she would not miss out on his final burial. It would be easier to stay hidden in a cemetery, after all. She already knew where it would be. She somehow managed to find her way there, though she never could really remember how she actually managed.

She wandered around the pathways, her mind a blank, save for the memories of her father that continually played through her mind. The sky was covered with cold, grey clouds. A light mist was falling. There was hardly anyone else in the cemetery. So, it gradually began to be obvious to her that she was not alone.

It was not long before she saw the woman standing off a little ways from her. Even from the back, Brenna knew who she was. Her short brown hair, the way she held herself with authority and confidence. Brenna looked around her, and saw that there were three people following at her heels, though trying to be discrete. However, she knew when she was being pursued. There used to be a time when she would have welcomed the thrill of the chase; right now, she found that she was tired of running.

She went up to the woman, who didn't turn to look at her. "You've led me on quite a chase these past few months, Brenna."

"I've been running for four years. What's made the past few months any different?"

"But, I will admit, I lost you after you stole that Raphael from Amsterdam. If this hadn't happened, if might have taken me a lot longer."

For once, Brenna didn't have a smart response. "How did you know I would come back?"

"I saw that your father had died. I know that you would be coming back for his funeral. You cared too much about him to not come back and pay your respects. You loved him to much."

Brenna sighed deeply. "Every safe, no matter how well built, has a weak spot of some sort. I guess you got to mine faster than I thought you could have."

Alice Bennett at last turned to face her, her grey eyes looking at her penetratingly. "The question is, what will you do now?"

"What do you mean? I'm standing right in front of you. All you have to do is call in your goons to come and get the cuffs on me."

"That's true, I could do that." Said Alice, "However, what good will that do to this chase? You've been in the clutches of several agents, and you're always run. You live for the thrill of the chase, Brenna. It's your addiction. What I want to know is this your bottom line? Are you going to keep running? Because if you are, arresting you here and now will simply be a waste of time."

Brenna stared back at her, not bothering to deny what she had said. She knew exactly what Alice was talking about. She had been running, and somewhere along the line, she had come to the point where she was simply unable to stop. Right now, the very thought of continuing made her feel completely exhausted, physically and emotionally. "I'm tired of running." Said Brenna, softly, "This is the end of the chase former." She held out her hands. "I'm turning myself in."

Alice stared at her for a long time, before she nodded. She knew that Brenna wasn't lying. However, she didn't put the hand cuffs on Brenna right away. Instead, she took one of her hands and shook it. "It's good to meet you, Brenna Ryan."

Despite herself, Brenna felt a little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Same to you, Alice Bennett."

In the first meeting of thief and cop, pursuer and pursued, it was not a confrontation of opponents, rather of equals. And it was a first meeting that left in their minds an inkling of an idea: that they could perhaps be something more, something like partners.

* * *

_Present Day…_

From the start, there had been a connection between Alice and Brenna, as surprising as that seemed. From the start, Brenna had felt like she had at last found someone she could trust. It had felt… nice. She hadn't been expecting that after four years or never trusting anyone but herself. It felt good to have a friend, however unlikely it might have been.

Alice had provided stability in her life that she had lacked. She had supported Brenna when no one else had. She had given her a chance. Over the years, Alice had been one that she could count on. She didn't want that to change. That was why she didn't want to believe what Shane had told her. She didn't want to believe that Alice could be keeping a secret like the possibility that her father had been murdered, and doing so in cooperation with Mycroft Holmes of all people.

However, the day after Shane had told her his information, she arrived at the Yard earlier than she normally did. What she witnessed there planted the first seeds of doubt in her mind.

When she came in, she saw Patrick. "Hey, Brenna. You're here early." He said, looking up from his paper as he came in.

"Yeah, I really couldn't sleep last night. But I got an idea that I wanted to run by past Alice."

"Well, a word of warning. Iron Lady is in one of her moods.

"Really, what makes you say that?"

Patrick jerked his head to the conference room, where Brenna was beginning to hear the tell tale signs of Alice's temper dangerously flaring. "What's set her off this early?"

Patrick shrugged. "Beats me. She got a phone call about twenty minutes ago and disappeared into the conference room. She's been in there ever since. It must be important."

"Well, I need to be at the Hickman in an hour. I'll have to brave it."

"Better you than me, Brenna."

Brenna approached the conference room. Alice's back was to her and she was so absorbed in the conversation that she neither saw nor heard Brenna's coming. However, she had left the door open just a crack, and Brenna heard her end of the exchange. Those first words made her freeze. "Look, I don't care what game you're playing, Mr. Holmes. I'm worried about Brenna's safety first and foremost. If he's making some sort of big play, I need to know about it."

Brenna's mind went blank when she heard this. Her mouth dropped open, and her surprise and shock made her almost speechless. That turned out to be for the best. Had she made any indication that she was listening in on the conversation, Alice would have cut the conversation off. And Brenna wouldn't have heard the most important part of the conversation. "You trying to tell me that strapping bombs to people and threatening to blow them up while your brother runs around trying to figure out the puzzle, all while the timer ticks down to doom's day isn't his style? It's like Dublin in 2006 and you know it… We both know he's obsessed. He had you in his sights for years until your brother proved to be a more tantalizing target… Yes, but Brenna is involved with Sherlock. How do you know that he won't set his sights on her? That could put her in danger."

There were a few moments of silence. And when Alice spoke again, her voice had become low and dangerous. "You listen to me, Mr. Holmes. British government or no, I made a promise that I intend to keep. If anything happens to Brenna or if her safety is compromised in anyway, I'll make sure that he knows and you can imagine that he won't be happy about it… And don't think you can threaten me, Mr. Holmes. You might be the British Government, but you're lacking two very important advantages when it comes to dealing with me: I'm a wife and a mother. Any man should know they can't hope to win against that."

Angrily, she ended the call, and collapsed in one of the chairs, rubbing her eyes in obvious frustration. She didn't even notice Brenna standing just in front of the door, and that she had heard every word of a conversation that she shouldn't have. She was in complete shock. She was hardly able to process it.

Shane had been right. Alice had been talking to Mycroft Holmes. She was certain that of it. There was no other Holmes who could be said to have the entire British Government in the palm of his hand. And they had been talking about her. Alice was hiding something from her. Brenna would never have believed it if she hadn't heard it herself.

It was fortunate that Alice happened to turn around and see her right at that moment, or Brenna might have been frozen in shock for quite some time. "Brenna, don't scare me by sneaking up on me like that."

"Oh, sorry," said Brenna, "I just didn't want to come in until that little conversation of yours was over."

For a brief second, Alice's eyes flashed with concern. "How much of that did you hear?"

Brenna had just had a terrible shock. However, many years of living by her wits and hiding what she truly though now came in handy. Her face showed complete nonchalance and her next words were so artlessly delivered that even Alice, who was most of the time wise to her many meanings, believed it. "Oh, no. I heard nothing. You just sounded pretty upset, like you were ready to rip the head off of whoever was talking to you."

Alice seemed almost relived by this statement. Brenna saw it, and her heart sank. It was brought even lower when she hears her next words. "It was just a private matter. Nothing you need to be concerned about."

Brenna felt a stab of disappointment. Alice wasn't going to tell her anything. Alice didn't trust her, not completely, at least. And Brenna, despite herself, felt more than a little betrayed. What could be so serious that Alice wasn't telling her? And what did any of it have to do with Mycroft Holmes?

She had no answers to these questions, but from that moment, she would begin to doubt when it came to Alice. And in time, it would grow to the point where she neither knew truth or falsehood in the one person she thought that she could trust the most.

* * *

So, it seems that secrets are just being layered upon secrets. The secrets will only start to get even more complicated as this particular story goes on. Please read and review.

Next chapter: Brenna crosses paths with Sherlock and John as they start on a new challenge from the mysterious bomber. Both of them are soon to encounter unforeseen difficulties, however. Especially when Alice reveals to Brenna the presence of a suspected mole in the police department and one of their witnesses turns up murdered at the hands of the Gollum. (I could make some sort of Hobbit reference here, seeing as how that just opened this week, but I will refrain)


	6. Gong Nowhere

I hope that everyone had a wonderful Christmas. As my latest gift for you, here is a double helping of Sherlockian goodness. Enjoy!

Going Nowhere:

Brenna arrived at the Hickman Gallery about an hour later. She had told Alice about the plan which Shane had suggested to her. She was thinking about trying to talk to some of the night guards at the Gallery, seeing specifically who had access to the room where the Vermeer was located. Alice had told her to run with it, as it seemed that was the best chance that they had right now of getting any information.

The Hickman Gallery was well designed in terms of security. Each employee had an ID card that accessed all the rooms in the Gallery. The security records made a recording of each entry into every room over a twenty-four hour period. She was able to get a listing of all the people who had managed to get into the Vermeer gallery, and it wasn't a very long list. It was only Ramona Wenceslas and two or three security guards over the past week. She was trying to figure out how best to approach each of them, when she noticed that there was something odd about the security read outs for the past two nights.

It looked as though the security cameras and other measures had been deactivated for a period of twenty-two minutes before coming back on again. Brenna didn't know why that was happening, but the man who had initiated the shut down was the night guard named Alex Woodbridge. She saw that he was just getting off his shift in a few minutes. She quickly hurried down to the locker room where he would be changing out of his uniform, and she could hopefully catch him in private before he left.

However, just as she was about to come upon him, she heard Woodbridge's voice speaking on the phone. It appeared that she had caught him right in the middle of leaving a voice message on someone's machine. "Hey, Professor Cairns, it's Alex. I need to talk with, soon. Remember what I told you about this painting at the Gallery I'm working at? I saw it again, and I think I knew what it was that set me on edge. I need to get your opinion on it before I can go to the police. Call me when you get this."

After hearing this, Brenna decided that the direct approach might be the best way to go. When Woodbridge had finished speaking, and was just preparing to leave the locker room, she said, "I hope that I'm not interrupting anything."

Woodbridge jumped nearly two feet in the air when he heard her voice. He turned around and his eyes grew wide when he saw Brenna standing there and realized that she had overheard everything. "Who are you? What gives you the right to listen in on private phone conversations?"

"Perhaps the fact that you were making them in the locker room of the place where you work. If you're so worried about being overheard, you shouldn't have made them her."

"Look, don't tell Wenceslas, will you?" Woodbridge pleaded, "I don't want any part of this. Something is going on, and I just want to stay out of it. There can't be a profit in it for me."

"Wait, what are you talking about?"

"No, I can't tell you. You work for her, you'll just tell her."

"I don't work for Ramona Wenceslas." Said Brenna, knowing that she could be taking a risk by revealing her cover, but she knew that she had to take a risk if she were ever going to get any information. "I'm here undercover."

Woodbridge paused. "You're with the police?"

"Yes, my superiors believe that there is something going on with the Vermeer. Anything you can tell me might be able to help. Why were the security systems shut down during your shift last night?"

"Wenceslas asked me to do it." Said Woodbridge, who seemed still a little nervous, "She told me to start shutting down the security systems over the past few weeks, all at different times so that it would look like a random malfunction. I think that it's getting some attention because I got an e-mail yesterday that said they were going to shut down the systems two nights from now for two hours in order to affect repairs."

"Why on earth would they do it while the museum is still open?" said Brenna, "Shouldn't the museum be closed down in order to avoid any chance of theft?"

"That's what I thought. But then I began to wonder what was going on. It finally struck me that in three days the Vermeer is going on display, and I just wondered if there was some sort of connection. So, I took a peek at it a couple of time while I was patrolling. I don't think it's a real Vermeer."

"How can you be sure? Do you know anything about Vermeer?"

"No, I mean, I like art, but I'm no expert. But there was something there; something that I was sure was out of place?"

"What?"

Woodbridge looked around and he dropped his voice to a whisper. "Look, it's not that I don't trust you or don't want to help, but I don't know if I want to talk about it here. I think that Wenceslas is onto me. I don't feel safe."

"Has she been threatening you?"

"Not in so many words, but someone followed me home last night, and he didn't look exactly look friendly. He was the tallest man that I had ever seen, with long legs and arms. He looked strong as a tree trunk, and he walked like a spider." A shudder passed through him at the memory. "I don't know what he wants with me, but I don't want to run into him again."

"If you tell us what you know," Said Brenna, "the police will keep you safe."

Woodbridge seemed to consider for a moment, before he nodded. "All right, I'll meet with you." He told Brenna the location of a deserted area of the Thames Shore, a few miles from the London Bridge. He would be there to meet them that night.

Brenna told him that they would be there. As she went back to work, she could only hope that this there was finally going to be a break in the case. This was already going a bit too far for her liking.

* * *

That same afternoon, Brenna was finally on her lunch break, and she felt the need to indulge. Wenceslas was becoming utterly impossible, and she could not wait to expose her and finally get this assignment finished. She had had just enough time to get a cab to a little café that she knew about fifteen minutes from the Hickman, and she was a bit surprised at who she ran into.

"Sherlock, John," She called to them when she saw them sitting there.

The two men heard her and John smiled at her and waved her over. Sherlock didn't react at all, as he normally did when he came across her in public. But Brenna had been with him long enough to see the slight brightening in his eyes when he caught sight of her from across her a crowded room.

"Brenna, it's great to see you." Said John, as she joined them, "You're actually a welcome sight after all the running around we've been doing."

"Yes, so I've been hearing."

"Really?" said John.

"You don't think that a mysterious bomber calling in seemingly impossible cases to Sherlock while the lives of other people hang in the balance would be able to go unnoticed did you?" said Brenna.

"They've been easy to solve, so far." Said Sherlock. "It's actually been quite fascinating."

"Fascinating? Not quite the word that I would choose, Sherlock, but then I never had quite the gift of expressing myself that you did."

"What brings you here?" John asked.

"Trying to gain a little bit of breathing room before I have to go back under the fist of the Iron Bitch."

"Who?" John asked.

"My new temporary boss at the Hickman Gallery." Said Brenna, "She makes you look like a saint, Sherlock, and that's saying something. I can't wait for this assignment to be over." She looked over at Sherlock, "How are you holding up? I've been worried about the two of you."

"About me?" said Sherlock, in obvious confusion, "Why on earth should you be worried about me?"

"Well, I'm worried that you might be running poor John into the ground."

"I'm fine, I was just a bit peaky that's all." Said John. "Besides, I have to keep up with Sherlock; he would just get himself into trouble."

"I still don't see why you should be worried about me."

"Sherlock, you're going up against some sort of psychopath. That's the only way you can describe this guy's actions. And why does he pick now of all times to drop this load of cases on you?"

"She does have a point, Sherlock." Said John, "I mean, has it occurred to you…"

"Probably." Sherlock finished.

"No, has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes, it's all meant for you."

"Yes, I know."

"Is it him, then? Moriarty?"

At the mention of this name, something stirred in Brenna's memory. She had heard the name before, the night when Sherlock had solved the case of the multiple serial suicides. She could also remember the almost childish excitement that Sherlock had said the name with, and something that she hadn't been able to understand at the time: anticipation.

"Moriarty? Who's Moriarty?"

"The cabby who was responsible for those murders a few months ago told me that I had a fan, someone who had noticed me. The cabby told me that he had warned him about me, and that he was a sponsor for his murders. For every life he took, money would go to his children. I've been thinking for some time that he would be making some sort of move, to test me."

"Test you for what?"

"I don't know." Sherlock honestly answered. He said Brenna's shoulders tense up slightly. She seemed to become suddenly absorbed with her plate of food, swirling around the different groups of food in no coherent pattern. He recognized such signs of anxiety from her. "Why are you concerned?"

"It's just that… Sherlock, I don't want you to get hurt."

"I won't get hurt. That's hardly what the bomber wants."

"Sherlock, Moriarty is stalking you, and I don't like it."

Their argument was cut short by a beep from the pink phone that hadn't left Sherlock's side for nearly three days. Three pips sounded, before a picture of a middle-aged woman with white hair and enough botox to obscure whatever she might have looked like originally appeared on the screen.

Sherlock looked at the picture for a moment in confusion. "That could be anybody."

"Well, it could be, yeah." Said John, as he got to his feet, "Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed."

"How d you mean?"

"Lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly."

He went over to the television in the café and changed the channel to a program that Brenna recognized in passing from flipping through channels. "That's Connie Prince." At Sherlock's mystified expression "She runs a makeover show. She was something of a hit, I think, though I always found her irritating in the extreme."

Before Sherlock could answer, the pink phone rang. "Hello?" said Sherlock.

Brenna scooted a little closer so that she could hear. The voice of an old woman on the other end of the line made her pale with horror. "This one is a bit defective. Sorry, she's blind. This is a funny one. I'll give you twelve hours."

Despite Sherlock's professed indifference to the welfare of the victims, Brenna thought that she saw him tense up ever so slightly when he heard these words. "Why are you doing this?" He demanded in a quiet voice.

"I like to watch you dance." Came the terrified answer from the old woman, followed by a few seconds of sobbing, before the line abruptly went dead.

Brenna swallowed hard and looked at Sherlock. His face was unreadable, but he was already thinking a mile a minute. "I'm afraid I have to go." He said.

"All right." She reached out to grab one of his hands and said, "Sherlock, please be careful."

For a split second, Sherlock's face softened. He still didn't understand why she should be so worried about him, but he wouldn't argue against it. Besides, he was beginning to find that he actually liked having someone worry about him. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "I will be. I promise." He exchanged one last glance with her, before he and John headed for the door, leaving Brenna to finish her meal in silence, and with no small amount of trepidation.

* * *

Hmm, so it seems that Moriarty is starting to get a little to close for everyone's liking, except for Sherlock, of course. Nothing ever phases him. Or does it? We'll just have to see on that one.


	7. Stakeout Gone Wrong

Stakeout Gone Wrong:  
That night, Alice, Brenna and Patrick were waiting for Alex Woodbridge at the place where he said he would meet with Brenna. After nearly thirty minutes, there was still no sign of him, and Alice told Patrick to get out to take a look around the area and see if he could find any sign of Woodbridge. "Try to be discrete, Patrick." Said Alice, "If what Brenna says it's true, than it sounds like Woodbridge is a little jumpy. Don't scare him off and don't show your weapon."

"Gone it, Bennett. I'll call back once I have something."

Once Patrick was gone, Brenna rubbed her face with her hands, trying to wake herself up a little. "I really do hate these stakeouts. It's the most boring part of the job."

"You sounded almost exactly like Sherlock when you said that." Said Alice, "I have to say that almost makes me worried about the direction which your relationship is going."

"At least I don't complain every step of the way when things aren't going my way." Said Brenna, "Besides, Sherlock has very little reason to be bored these last few days. I ran into him and John today, and they had just gotten another call from that crazy bomber guy."

"So, I see that you've heard about it?"

"It's the main item of gossip around the Yard. It sounds like Lustrate is pulling his hair out."

"That is an an understatement." Alice paused for a moment, as she tried to think of the right way to put what was she was about to say. She knew that she would be getting another opportunity like this, and she needed to make the most of it. "Look, Brenna, there is another reason why I sent Patrick on ahead to scout the area. It wouldn't look like I didn't trust him."

"What would you have to say to me that you couldn't trust Patrick with?" asked Brenna.

Alice seemed to take a moment to respond, clearly reluctant to say whatever was on her mind. She turned around to glance around them through the car windows, as if to make doubly sure that they were alone. "Brenna, what I'm about to tell you can't go out side of this car. Can I trust you on that?"

"You know you can, as much as you can trust a thief with anything." Alice shot her a look. "Wait, you're serious bout this, aren't you?"

"I wish that I didn't have to be. Over the past few months, Greg and I have bee noticing that there have been… problems with some of the major cases we've worked."

"Problems?"

"Yes, witnesses suddenly go missing without any sort of warning, evidence disappears from a crime scene and when it turns up again, it's been tampered with. Case files are also sometimes disappearing. They've even been deleted on the computer files, as if they didn't even exist."

"If this has been happening, why haven't I picked up on it yet, or anyone else for that matter?"

"So far, we've been trying to keep it under wraps until we're sure of what's going on. Besides, the slip-ups haven't been severe enough to warrant a major investigation. They only delay solving a case, until the point where we know who the culprit is but we can't locate them or they're fled the country. It wasn't until this past week though that we became very worried."

"Why?"

"It started when Sherlock was contacted three times now from that bomber. Greg and I were talking about tonight, before I came out here. We couldn't help but notice that there seems to be too much of a coincidence when it comes to the timing of everything. This caller seems to know where Sherlock is every step of the way, and is staying ahead of him all the time. That means he's got a lot of connections, some of them might even be closer than Greg or I wanted to think until now."

Brenna suddenly realized what Alice was talking about. "A mole, you think there's a leak somewhere in the department?"

"It's the only explanation that seems to fit with all the facts. Whoever it is has strong ties with both White Collar and homicide, and they would have to have pretty high clearance for getting into all this without arousing suspicion. That could be anyone of a number of people."

"Is that why you sent Patrick away? He's a suspect? Surely you don't think that he-"

"No, of course not, but until Greg and I know more, we can't afford to trust anyone with this information, not until we have more evidence."

Brenna looked at her. "But you trust me?"

"Yes, because out of al the people that Greg and I work with, you are the only person who couldn't be doing this. Because of your position, you're the only one we can trust."

"Thank you, I think. But what do you expect me to do?"

"Do what you do best," said Alice, "poke around, see what you can come up with that sounds strange. Basically, try to find the secrets that people might want to keep hidden from the police force."

"That might force me to step over a few legal boundaries."

"What about moral ones?"

"No, I think I'm god with those."

"Than do what you have to. I'll cover for you."

"Than consider every dirty little secret of Scotland Yard open for the taking." She paused for a moment, before she said, "Since were on the subject of sharing secrets, is there anything else that you want to tell me?"

Alice turned to look at her, a confused expression on her face. "Not that I can think of. Why do you ask?"

Brenna really didn't like having to do this, but the information she had learned from Shane the previous night had been humming her brain all day. And after overhearing that phone call from Mycroft to Alice, she knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt that something was going on. She was trying to give Alice every chance that she could to come clean, but it wasn't working. So, she had to do something that she never thought that she would have to do with Alice: she was going to have to use deception.

"I've, uh, just been thinking a lot lately, abut my father."

She saw Alice's face flash for a split second with worry, before it returned to normal. "Oh, why is that?" Her tone of voice, though it sounded perfectly normal to other people, but to Brenna's trained ears, she could sense that there was just the slightest amount of tension. Alice was hoping that she wouldn't give too much away.

"I don't know. I've been getting back in contact with Martha, you know. We're actually, hopefully, going to dinner in a few days. It got me thinking that I really don't have a good idea of the circumstances that led up to his death. I was just wondering if you had any information about the accident that killed him."

"I do, as a matter of fact." Said Alice, "I could give the files, if you wanted. Some of them are a little gruesome."

"I would appreciate that." Said Brenna, "Was there every any sign of foul play?"

"You mean, murder? What makes you think that?"

"Well, dad was involved in the gang unit for several years. He was involved in pretty sensitive cases, and had to go undercover several times. I just was wondering if maybe someone could have had a grudge against him."

Alice inhaled sharply, and turned to look out the window. Brenna observed this, knowing that Alice was trying to take time to compose her answer, and even when she did answer, she couldn't face her. "You know that your father and I worked a few cases together, some of them of the sensitive nature that you mention. He probably made a few enemies, but I don't know of any that would hate him so much as to blow him up and make it look like an accident. I would think that they would have tried to murder him in a way that would drew attention to themselves."

"So, it was just an accident."

Only now did Alice turn to look at Brenna, and her face seemed utterly earnest. "Yes, I believe that it was an accident."

Brenna could tell that she would be getting no more from Alice that night. The subject was closed. But for a first attempt, she had gotten more than she expected. Alice was clearly keeping something form her, and she clearly knew more of her father's accident that she was letting on. Brenna wasn't sure how to react to the fact that Alice was keeping such important secrets from her.

But before she could think anymore of it, Alice abruptly changed the subject with her next words. "Does it strike as strange that Patrick hasn't come back yet? I only sent him to scout the area and come right back. He seems to have been gone awhile."

Brenna only just now noticed the same thing. She forced her mind back to the present case. She may have had many questions, but she still had a job to do. Things had not yet progressed to the point where she would make difficulties with Alice. "Now, that you mention it, you're right. Maybe we should see if something's happened to him."

"Good idea." Said Alice, as they got out of the car. "There's already been one death from this fake painting. I don't think whoever's behind it would hesitate to of it again. Stay behind me, Brenna. I can't have you getting hurt."

"No problem, you're the one with the gun."

The two of made their carefully down to the Thames. By this point, the only light came from the few light posts which were scattered at irregular intervals down the street. "Why do I get the feeling that we're in some sort of horror movie?" said Alice, "And this is the part where the two people go to find their fallen comrade only to get jumped by the psycho themselves?"

"Thank you so much for that bright assessment of the situation, Alice. That makes me feel so much better." Suddenly she stopped and grabbed Alice's arm, shoving her into the shadows. "Look, Alice, over there."

Alice looked where Brenna was pointing. The two of them saw the outline of a giant man, at least seven feet tall, with long legs and arms, which ended in hook like claws. That shadow of a man was crushing another struggling figure in his embrace, choking the life from him. "That's Woodbridge." Said Brenna, with shock, recognizing what she could from the little light there was.

"Come on, Brenna."

The two women ran forward, Alice in the front. But the giant seemed to have sharp hearing along with a deadly grip. He heard them coming when they were halfway there. He wasted no time, but hefted the body, which was clearly already dead, and with no difficulty, dragged it to the railing and dumped it into the Thames. He then turned to meet his attackers. With several long strides, he closed the gap between them. Alice already had her gun out, ready to fire. But the giant was too quick for her. He snapped his fist out as soon as he was within range, and knocked the gun from Alice's grip. He then grabbed her by both arms and shoved her to the ground. Alice temporarily disposed, he went after Brenna, striking her squarely in the stomach. All of his strength was behind it, and Brenna was completely winded. She collapsed, gasping and coughing.

She managed to get her breath back, only to see that the giant of a man had Alice in his clutches, strangling the life from her. Alice clawed and twisted in his grip, but all her struggles were for nothing, as the giant was clearly too strong for her.

Brenna grabbed the gun from where it had been knocked from Alice's hand. She took aim and fired off several stray rounds of bullets in the direction of the giant. She didn't get him, but it was enough to apparently scare him off. Perhaps he thought that there were more policemen, or maybe he just didn't want to draw anymore attention to himself with the presence of gunfire. He immediately dropped Alice and skittered away into the shadows, looking too much like a large, hulking spider for Brenna's interests.

Once he was gone, Brenna hurried to Alice's side. Her friend was gasping ad coughing, bruises already starting to form on her neck from where the assassin's long fingers had tried to clamp themselves around her throat. "Alice, are you all right?"

"Yes, I think so." Said Alice, between gasps and coughs. She took a few moments to compose hr breathing and once she had gotten control of it, she said, "Thank for that, by the way."

"Anytime." Said Brenna. She suddenly realized that she was sill holding the gun. With a look of acute distaste, she shoved it Alice's direction. "Here, you can have this back." Brenna hated using guns. She preferred to run or use her own body for defense. She knew that she could call back a punch; she would never be able to call back a bullet. However, that didn't mean that she couldn't use them, and she actually wasn't half a bad shot. Still, she preferred not to have to make the choice.

Alice, well aware of Brenna's aversion to guns, took the weapon from her. "Thanks. Don't worry, the fact that you're bearing arms when you're not supposed to be won't end up in my report."

"You're to generous." Brenna muttered, "Where's Patrick? He must have run into that guy, whoever he is."

Together, they searched the surrounding area, and eventually found Patrick, tossed behind a dumpster of one of the warehouses scattered along that section of the river. He was dazed, with a lot of bruises on his body, and a nasty cut over one eye. "He just came up out of nowhere. I just managed to see Woodbridge, when this guy came out of nowhere." Said Patrick, who was relieved to see them. "I never had a chance. He was so big and strong. It felt like I was in the grip of some sort of giant. Sorry, Bennett, I think that I gave him the chance to kill Woodbridge."

"There was nothing that you could have done, Patrick." Said Alice, "I doubt that three of us together would have been able to take him. We'll get you to the hospital and looked after. You'll be back up on your feet in no time."

"Thanks, Bennett."

"But that still means that we've lost our only witness." Said Brenna, "Without Woodbridge to tell us what we're looking for, it seems that we're right back where we started."

"Than we'll just have to start working harder." Said Alice, "This painting has killed two people now. I, for one, want to make sure that it doesn't happen again."

* * *

Boy, there seem to be plot twists coming out everywhere. I won't be revealing the identity of the mole until fairly late into the next series, but I can say, it may not necessarily be who people think it is. I'll leave you to chew on that for awhile. In the meantime, please read and review

Next chapter: Brenna comes home from her failed stakeout, only to find Sherlock on her doorstep, and he is not his normal, confidant self. In the face of a game changer with the mysterious bomber, he finds himself struggling with the uncertain emotions of failure. And only Brenna can comfort him.


	8. Comfort

Happy new Year! Hopefully, all of your holidays were everything that you were hoping they would be. To start things off properly in this new year, here is some Brenna/Sherlock fluff. A brief word, though, before we get into it, as I just want to make my thoughts on this scene clear. This chapter shows Sherlock experiencing emotional reactions more strongly than he initially does in The Great Game. There is nothing quite so challenging as trying to make Sherlock both emotional and vulnerable, and yet in character at the same time. What I have always been struck by with Benedict Cumberbatch's performance is that he shows the flashes of humanity that lurk behind the austere mask of Sherlock Holmes. His performance made me think that Sherlock is capable of feeling things very strongly, but he is also very good at keeping those emotions under tight control. That's what makes him such a good detective and a fascinating character. But, every so often, I do think that the mask slips, and this is my idea of what happens when it does. That being said, I hope that you will keep this in mind when you read this chapter, and that you will enjoy reading it.

Comfort:

Brenna got home after the failed rendezvous at about midnight. She was understandably tired. Witnessing a potential murder and then getting into a fight with an assassin didn't really help with stamina. However, she was somewhat surprised to Sherlock waiting for her on the front steps. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you. I trust that this isn't an inconvenient time."

"No, of course not. No time is ever inconvenient with you." Brenna stared at Sherlock for a moment. She didn't really know why, but something just seemed off about him tonight. "Is everything all right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped up, and Brenna was certain that she saw surprise and uncertainty flash in them. "I'm fine." He said, almost as quickly, and the tone lacked his usual breezy confidence. "I'm always fine. Why should I be otherwise?"

"I don't know, you just seem a trifle distracted. Did anything with that bomber today?"

Sherlock's body entire body stiffened when he heard those words. He instantly looked away so that she couldn't see his eyes. "Shall we go in?" He asked, in an incredibly poor attempt to change the subject.

"Yes, of course." Said Brenna, who clearly did not believe him. Something had happened, she could tell, and it had been something terrible. She wouldn't be able to get Sherlock to open up to her just yet, though. She would have to wait for him to do that. The very fact that he was here at all was enough for her to know that tonight, Sherlock needed her help.

The two came into the flat. There was immediately the sound of skittering claws on the hard wood floors, and Lily appeared, tail wagging and tongue hanging out of her mouth in the typical beagle grin. She was obviously quite happy to see Sherlock and Brenna. "Hello, Lily, you must be hungry. I'll get you something. Keep Sherlock company for me, will you?"

Sherlock made no reply. That worried Brenna even more. Ordinarily, when she made some sort of dig about Sherlock actually liking Lily, he had something sarcastic to say in response, or at least give her an annoyed glare. Instead, he breezed past her into the living room. Brenna frowned, this was serious indeed.

He sat down on the couch and Lily jumped up besides him, and settled her head on his lap. He made no move to push her away. Brenna took note of this, but didn't bother to bring it up. She picked up the remote and turned the news on the television on. She went into the kitchen to get Lily her dinner.

"How's that case of yours coming?" Sherlock asked, sounding almost desperate to make some sort of conversation.

"Not great." Said Brenna, "In fact, I would forego my usual eloquence and say that right now, it sucks."

"That bad?" said Sherlock.

"Yes, Alice wants to keep it under wraps as much as possible, but suffice it to say we may have lost one of our key witnesses." Brenna had prepared Lily's food by this point, and she set the bowl down on the floor. Lily jumped down from the couch and patted over to the food bowl. Brenna came back into the room, only to see the news story of the gas leak explosion in Glasgow, which had taken out nearly twelve flats, and killed almost as many people. "And then this happened. We heard it on the police radio on the way back. Horrible accident. There may be dozens more trapped inside that they won't be able to get to until daybreak. It has not been a good day for police. I'll say that much."

It was only then that she noticed Sherlock. His gaze was fixed on the television screen, a look of sick horror on his face. His breathing was coming harsh and shallow, and the rigidity in his body seemed to have increased. "Sherlock, are you all right?"

"Turn it off." Said Sherlock, his voice barely above a whisper, but with an intensity of feeling that Brenna had heard only a few times in the course of their relationship.

"Sherlock, What-"

"Turn it off!" snapped Sherlock, the volume in his voice having risen to one of sharp panic. It was harder than he had meant it to be, but it was obvious that he wasn't thinking as logically as he normally did.

Brenna quickly tuned off the television, and turned to look at Sherlock. He was still breathing irregularly, his eyes tight shut, and his hands pressed on either of his head, as though he were desperately trying to gain control of emotions that were spiraling out of control. Brenna began to piece together what she was seeing. She had been there when Sherlock had gotten a call from his latest bomber case. The bomber had given him twelve hours to solve it. It had been more than that, and now, she was seeing exactly how it turned out Sherlock had come here. Because he needed comfort, because he had failed.

She sat down beside him on the couch, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock, talk to me. Please, tell me what happened."

For a few minutes, Sherlock could not say anything. When he did speak, there was no hint of his normal confidence and poise. No, there was raw emotion in hose words, his tone broken and halting. "Brenna, I… I failed. I wasn't able to save her this time."

Sherlock Holmes wasn't crying. He never cried. But, the weight of having failed to save so many people was clearly affecting him in a way that he wasn't used to.

"I solved the case, but when I heard her voice again, she started to describe the man who had been speaking to her. I tried to get her to stop. I couldn't know anything about him, but she wouldn't listen to me. I heard the gun shot, and the line... it just went dead." He shook his head, raking his hands through his hair, as if trying to drive the memory and the emotion from his mind.

But, he clearly wasn't succeeding. Brenna reached out and took both of his hands in her own, and said soothingly, "Sherlock, you tried. It wasn't your fault that this psycho, whoever he may be, decided to take matters into his hand."

"I know it's not my fault." Said Sherlock, "But, Brenna, failure, its consequences… I don't know how I'm supposed to process it. What am I supposed to do?"

His expression was so lost and desperate, Brenna felt her heart breaking. She put her arms around him and pulled her closer to him. Sherlock's stiffened slightly, but than slowly allowed himself to melt into her arms, burying her face into her shoulder, taking comfort from her warmth and presence.

Many people who had seen Sherlock working a case could be horrified at how callously he seemed to regard the most gruesome of crimes. From kidnapping to murder, he reveled in the complexities of a case, of solving the puzzle. It was just a vehicle to stimulate his mind; the people involved were simply transport. Many concluded that Sherlock simply did not care about the people who were involved.

In a sense, they were all right. Sherlock Holmes didn't care, in the way that most would think of the action. The simple fact of the matter was that Sherlock didn't care or worry, because he simply didn't need to. Why should he? Caring and other emotional entanglements could blind the judgments and dull the sense, perverting the course of justice from being done. For Sherlock, when nine times out of ten he was able to solve the case to everyone's satisfaction, why should he waste time and brain power by worrying?

However, Sherlock did care enough to do everything in his power to solve the case. He seemed to have his own moral code, which not many other people would have been aware of. But, he never went against it. He did know that peoples' lives were on the line, and his success meant their lives would be saved. But Sherlock was still human. He could still make mistakes. And when he failed, the consequences could be dire. He had never known how to deal with the emotional consequences that came when he failed. He had once used drugs to help numb his senses to it. Now, he was better able to face them, but it was still difficult for him.

That was why he could only turn to Brenna during these times. She was the only who he could trust to show his vulnerability to. It made her love him all the more, because of that trust. And she always tried to bring what comfort she could.

"I'll tell you what you do, Sherlock." She said, after a few minutes, and she felt his breathing begin to grow more regular and calm. "You keep on going. You'll get up in the morning and try to put this behind you. From what you've old me, this isn't over. You can't give up. Someone else is going to need you soon."

Sherlock raised his eyes to look at her. It didn't seem at first that she had gotten through to him, for there was still a little uncertainty in his eyes. He clearly didn't want the same thing to happen again, if only for the sake of his own sanity. His opponent had also upped the consequences of the game they were playing. Sherlock knew just how far he was willing to go.

However, it was enough for Sherlock to see the confidence that Brenna had in him. She believed in him, despite everything that he was. Sherlock knew that he was far from the idealistic boyfriend that so many people dreamed of. Normally, he didn't let such things bother him. But on the rare occasions when he started to question himself, Brenna was always there to grant him help. For some reason, that had made all of the difference to him. For all that he said he never needed anyone, he knew that wasn't true. He did someone, he had always needed someone, and that person had turned out to be Brenna.

Sometimes, words were not needed between these two. Their deepest emotions could be understood by a single glance. So, when Brenna saw that Sherlock's was slowly becoming steadier, she knew that he was going to be all right.

"It's going to be all right, Sherlock." She said, gently.

"I know." Said Sherlock, with a bit more belief than he had been feeling.

He then did something which was rather unexpected. He reached out and embraced her, pulling her into his chest in an almost desperate need to feel her body enmeshed with his own. "I love you. Brenna, you know that, don't you?" His voice was thick with emotion of a different sort from the uncertainty that had plagued him only moments before. This was altogether different. This was the intensity of emotions that Sherlock rarely allowed himself to show, and only with her. "I know I don't say it or show it as much as other people do, but I would never want you to think that I… that my feelings for you were ever insincere."

Brenna found herself smiling softly; she pushed away from Sherlock slightly and looked into his eyes. "Sherlock, you don't have to say it to me. I know it's there. I see it every time you look at me. Of course, that doesn't mean that I don't enjoy hearing you say it."

She leaned forward and kissed him. One of his hands went up to a weave itself in her hair, while the other moved to pull her closer. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty, simply acceptance. These were the moments that made up for whatever shortcomings Sherlock may have had. It was these moments that made her remember why she loved him so much.

They stayed holding each other on the sofa for an indeterminate amount of time. They had lost track of time, because time didn't really matter. They had each other. That was enough for them both.

* * *

There is nothing quite so challenging about Sherlock fan fiction, as writing him with emotion. At the same time it is also one of the most rewarding aspects of it. Please review and tell me what you think.

Now, on a totally different, fan girl note. For anyone who has not going to see The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey, Go To See It! It is awesome! Martin Freeman was absolutely amazing as Bilbo. Basically like John Watson, only shrunk down to about three feet (Of course, John is a little bit of more of a bad ass, but that comes with being a former army doctor with an occasional rage problem). Benedict Cumberbatchh is also in it, but only as a shadowy, spooky grey guy in his role as the Necromancer and the eye of Smaug the Dragon. But still, it's a great movie. Okay, fan girl moment over. We now return you to your regularly scheduled fan fiction activities.

Next chapter: We return again into the past, with Brenna saying a final good bye to her father. However, in the face of her family's rejection and her own arrest, there is still one person who is willing to look beyond her crimes. Elizabeth, her sister, will be the only one who is willing to forgive and welcome Brenna home.


	9. Flashback III: Goodbye

Flashback III: Goodbye:

_Two and a half years previously…_

Elizabeth Ryan had always felt a certain amount of special protectiveness to her younger sister. Only one and a half years apart, the two were incredibly close and had been inseparable during their years of childhood. Like most young girls, they had made great plans and dreams. And like most little girls who grow up into women, those dreams were shattered by a reality they could not have expected or planned for.

Brenna had left during her third year at University, with no explanation and no word. She had just vanished. Elizabeth and the rest of the family had not known what had become of her, until her name had come up in connection with the theft of several priceless jewels from a gallery in London. The news had shattered the family. They didn't know how or why Brenna could have done such a thing. Elizabeth thought that she knew. Brenna had gotten involved with the wrong crowd, influenced heavily by Irene Adler. She had had her doubts about Irene from the start; the conniving woman had struck her as nothing but trouble. But she hadn't said anything, figuring that it would just blow over. But that was where she had been wrong. The guilt of that had weighed upon her conscious for the four years that her sister had been gone.

They had only gotten sporadic reports of her. One month she was in Mumbai, the next in Denmark, always running from the authorities, as her heists grew more and more elaborate. Slowly, as time passed, and they hard nothing from her, they had grown more bitter and angry. Her mother and oldest sister had not even tolerated her name being spoken. Martha had merely been quiet, not saying anything about it, and had tried to continue on with life, as though the whole business didn't even exist. It was only Elizabeth and her father who had held out any sense of hope that Brenna would come back. They were the only ones who had known that Brenna would one day come home.

Elizabeth had been away when she had gotten word of her father's death. A Lieutenant in the Royal Navy, soon to be promoted to Captain, her ship had been in the Gulf and because of various delays, she had barely been able to make it to Dublin in time for the funeral. So, she didn't know what happened before it had begun. Not until she and the rest of those who were going to the cemetery arrived did she learn the truth of what had happened.

She watched as her father's coffin was lowered into the ground. Her mother was sobbing quietly, while Kathleen comforted her, and Martha stood with her husband and her three children. Elizabeth herself still felt slightly in shock. Her father's death had been so sudden and unexpected, that though she had shed a few tears when she had heard the news, she still hadn't felt the full wave of grief that she would be soon be coming.

She could only stare into the hole in the ground, dry-eyed and numb. Until she caught sight of something, or rather someone just beyond the tight little circle of people around the grave site. It was a face that was gone in a moment, but she would have known it anywhere, though she hadn't seen it in over four years.

It was easy enough to slip away unnoticed as the people gathered to give their condolences to her mother. Elizabeth hurried through the graveyard in the direction of where she had seen her go. She found her near one of the back entrances to the cemetery. She didn't see the number of unmarked cars that were parked around the entrance, nor the number of people who seemed to be escorting her. Elizabeth didn't even see the hand cuffs that were around her wrists, all she saw was Brenna. Joy flooded through her. Brenna had come back. She had been right. She had always known that she would come back.

"Brenna."

Alice had been kinder to Brenna than even she had expected. She had allowed her the chance to see her father's coffin being lowered, so that she could at least pay her respects. But she had thought that no one had seen her. Trust Elizabeth to always notice her, even in a crowd of thousands.

"Lizzy." She said, quietly, as she moved forward to meet her, but was restrained by Patrick.

However, Alice told her sergeant. "Give them a moment, without the cuffs."

Patrick looked at her doubtfully, but nonetheless obeyed. Freed from the cuffs, Brenna hurried forward to meet Elizabeth. But Elizabeth was faster and met Brenna before she had even gotten half way. "Renna, oh Ren, I knew you'd come back, I just knew it."

For the umpteenth time that day, Brenna felt tears sting her eyes. After the harsh words from the rest of her family, Elizabeth's warmth and love were overwhelming. There was no malice in Elizabeth's welcome, no danger of recrimination. She was simply glad to have her back; she might as well have been gone for four years on a long trip, not a crime spree. In her sister's embrace, she finally found forgiveness. "I've missed you too, Lizzy. I'm sorry, so sorry."

"No, no. I won't hear of that." Said Elizabeth, sternly, "Not here, not today. Come on, you need to see the others."

Panic flooded Brenna and she froze, not going with her sister when she took her by the hand and began to walk towards the grave site. "Elizabeth, I can't."

"You have to, Brenna. Right now, I'm sure that they'll forgive you. There's enough tearing us apart right now. I can't allow you to be one of them."

"Lizzy, you don't understand. They don't want me to be here."

Elizabeth froze. She stared at Brenna in shock. "You mean… You've already seen them."

"Yes, and they made it quite clear that they didn't want me here. I had to sneak in to see the burial."

Elizabeth's eyes flashed with anger. "How dare they!" she cried, "How dare they!"

"Lizzy, don't."

"What gives them the right to bar you from dad's funeral? That's just… petty and malicious. I would have thought that today of all days they would understand the need for forgiveness."

"Lizzy, please, don't make a scene with them. They're right. I don't deserve to be here. It's no less than I deserve."

Elizabeth shook her head and took Brenna by the shoulders. "That's where your wrong, Brenna. You do deserve to be here. It's what dad would have wanted. Up to the last, he believed in you. They all knew it. They should have honored his wishes, if they had wanted him to rest in peace." She put a hand on her sister's cheek. "You should have been there, Brenna, they should have let you. But, I won't accuse them. I'll do what you ask."

Alice cleared her through, bringing them back to the present moment, and the reality. "I'm sorry, but Brenna, we have to be going."

"Brenna, who are those people?"

Brenna managed a small smile. "That's Detective Inspector Alice Bennett. She's, well, she's arresting me."

"Arresting you?"

"I have to answer for what I've done, Elizabeth. It's only right, we both know that."

"Perhaps, but I don't have to like it. I just got you back. How long do you think-"

"I don't know; it all depends what they can prove on me. At best, four, maybe five years."

"Then I'll hope for the best, and I'll find some way to keep in contact with you." Elizabeth hugged her tightly, one last time. "I love you, Ren. Always have and always will."

"I love you too, Lizzy."

They did not say goodbye as they parted. They hoped that they would not have to, that perhaps they could have a second chance. Brenna didn't know if she deserved it. But rarely are such chances deserved, and yet still they come, very often by a show of selfless, forgiving love. Elizabeth may not have been able to heal her family as she had wished, but she had given Brenna something infinitely more valuable: hope. And sometimes, a little ray of hope is all that's needed to overcome the darkness of despair and grief.

* * *

One of my favorite parts about writing fan fiction is creating new characters to inhabit these worlds. Elizabeth is one of them, and we will be seeing a lot more of her in the upcoming second series. I don't want to say much, but I can say this. Due to the appalling lack of John/OC stories on this site, I have decided to remedy that, and write one myself. Just something to look forward to. For right now, please read and review.

Next chapter: Sherlock pays Brenna a visit at the Hickman Gallery as their paths coincide on the separate cases which they are working. In the process, they find themselves in a rather tight situation, which leads to an opportunity for Sherlock to test ways of relieving sexual tension in two people who work closely together.


	10. Relieving Sexual Tension

Relieving Sexual Tension:

The next day, when Brenna went into the museum, she noticed that Wenceslas seemed unusually nervous. She was definitely on edge about something. She jumped at every little sound, and didn't seem to hear half of what Brenna told her regarding the last minute preparation about that night's grand opening.

This made Brenna rather happy. Nervous people made mistakes. They didn't always know what they were saying. And they always seemed very willing to talk to someone they thought would be sympathetic to them. So, at the first opportunity she had, she tried to make Wenceslas believe that she was exactly the type of person that she could absolutely trust.

Brenna came into her office, with Ramona's usual order of morning coffee. "Good morning, Miss Wenceslas."

"What? Oh, good morning, Miss King."

"Is everything all right, ma'am? You seem a little tense?"

"Am I? It must be nerves about the opening in a few days."

"Yes, of course. Well, I don't think that there is anything new to report. Oh, I heard from security. Apparently, one of the night guards, Alex Woodbridge, didn't show up for his shift last night."

Ramona's head shot up, and her eyes flashed with panic. "What?"

"Alex Woodbridge? He works the night shift after midnight. He was supposed to get here at 2:30, but he just never showed up."

When Ramona heard this, it was though she had finally heard something that caused her icy, professional exterior to crack. Her breathing increased, and the tension in her shoulders became all too apparent. She put her elbows on her desk and held her hand in her hands. Acting the part of a worried co worker, Brenna hurried over to her and put a gentle hand on Ramona's shoulder. "Miss Wenceslas, are you all right?"

"I sometimes wish that that painting had stayed where I found it." Said Ramona, "I sometimes wish that I had never laid eyes on it. It has proven to be so much trouble, almost more than it is worth."

"Ramona, how can you even think that?" said Brenna, testing the waters a little by calling Wenceslas by her first name, a feat that she had not yet been able to do. The fact that Ramona did not immediately react and correct her was yet another indication in Brenna's mind that she just might have gotten through. "Very soon all of this will be over. The Vermeer will be on display, and everyone will know just how talented and perceptive you are as a gallery owner. I don't know of anyone else who could have brought this Vermeer into the prominent position that it will enjoy. Why, I'm sure that no one else would have preserved so long to find a masterpiece that everyone said was lost forever. People in the art world will call you a hero."

It made Brenna feel more than a little sick to speak such lies, but she had learned long ago to hide her true opinion of people behind a mask of sweet talk and perfect understanding. And she had learned to be good at it. Even Wenceslas believed her. "You really think that?"

"I wouldn't have taken this job if I didn't think that you were the best at your craft."

Ramona managed a small smile when she heard this and said, "Thank you for that, Brenna. It means a lot to hear you say that."

"No trouble, Miss Wenceslas."

"Please, Regina. Call me Ramona."

"Of course, Ramona." Said Brenna, as she went back to her work, knowing that had completed her goal. If a person like Ramona was willing to let herself be called by her first name, than she knew it was only a manner of time before she let Brenna into more valuable secrets.

About an hour later, Brenna received a call from Alice. "Bennett, you had better make this quick. The Iron Bitch is still constantly watching over her shoulder."

"I just called to give you an update. We found the body of Alex Woodbridge. Lestrade is on the case now."

"Find out anything new?" asked Brenna.

"It was a hit. The Golem. One of the most dangerous assassins in the world."

Brenna didn't like the sound of that. "So, whoever's behind this must have some pretty money." Said Brenna.

"And considering that painting is worth a cool thirty million, I'm sure that he or se were willing to pay a lot to keep him quiet."

"Which means there's another incentive for solving this case, and there are still absolutely leads that I can latch you." Said Brenna, in frustration.

"Maybe another set of eyes would help."

"Another set of eyes? Alice, you can't anyone else up here. Ramona already watching me closely as it is, and I'm certain that she doesn't even suspect me."

"I was talking about Sherlock actually."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Apparently, Alex Woodbridge is the next victim of this human bombing crisis that's kept Lestrade so stressed. Sherlock was there at the crime scene when I got there with Trevor."

"Let me guess, he managed to come to the same conclusion about the fake Vermeer painting in five minutes."

"More like three and a half. The other minute and a half he was able to figure out that the three of us had actually seen the Golem last night. Apparently the bruises around my throat and mouth gave me away, and wearing a scarf made no difference."

"Of course not. And now he's headed over here, I take it?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if you saw him before the day was out."

Brenna's phone suddenly chirped and she looked at the text message and smirked. "Sooner than you think. I'll get back to you." She hung up and scanned the text message.

**Five minutes from Hickman Gallery. Need to speak with you. SH**

Brenna's smirk widened, as she texted back. **Meet me at the back door. I'll get you in. BR**

* * *

Sherlock met her by the service entrance of the Hickman Gallery. "Sherlock, lovely to see you. I didn't know you had an interest in modern art."

"I'm here for the case, Brenna." Said Sherlock.

"Aw, you didn't actually miss me?"

Sherlock beamed her a glare, as she began to lead him down the service hallway. "Must you assume that I am that codependent?"

"It's not hard to assume. Don't worry, Bennett already called me. I know that you're really here to do a little snooping."

"Observing." Sherlock corrected. "And while we're on the subject, why did you let the Gollem get away last night?"

"Well, the face that he was strangling my friend might have had something to do with it. At the time, I was more focused on saving her than I was about the Gollem."

"But you had him in your clutches. How could you just let him get away?"

Brenna rolled her eyes. "You would do the same thing if John were in danger. In fact, I'm fairly certain that you would give your life for John's safety if you had to."

Sherlock didn't reply. But his silence spoke volumes in itself. He couldn't deny it. John had become the closest friend he had ever had. It wasn't something that he could feel he could adequately explain in words, but it was swiftly becoming a defining part of his life.

After a few minutes, Brenna quietly asked, "Sherlock, this whole situation, Alex Woodbridge being murdered, the Golem, the Vermeer, is it-"

"Yes, it's the next test." said Sherlock, in a tight voice. "I haven't heard anything, so I don't know how long I have this time."

"What do you think he wants?"

"I don't know. I don't know why he's doing any of this. But this time, this I will stop him."

Brenna looked at Sherlock, and for just a split second, she saw the flash of determination and resolve in his eyes. He clearly didn't want a repeat of last night's failure. His mind was set and focused. He clearly intended to win.

"I know you will." She said.

Sherlock needed some sort of pretext for being able to do a little bit of covert snooping (or observation, as he said), and Brenna happened to have the perfect cover. Security guards had access to all areas of the building, and they were one of the few who would be able to get into the room with the Vermeer. Only one of them had been a threat, it seemed, or more would be dead.

So, Sherlock would have to get into security guard garb, this was nothing new. Brenna had seen Sherlock in any number of strange get ups; disguise was one of his principle gifts. That didn't necessarily mean that he was all that thrilled about having to wear the standard issue uniform of the Hickman Gallery Security officers.

"Stop your grousing, Sherlock." Said Brenna, as she came back with the jacket and hat she had been able to scourge from storage. Only to find Sherlock in the locker room, muttering under his breath about the ill-fitting garments that he was being forced to wear for the good of the case. "You should be lucky that I could even find something that would fit you from the spare uniforms. Most of our security guards aren't as tall, dark, and handsome as you."

"But that doesn't mean that they can't at least try and make a shirt which is half way comfortable. Honestly, this feels like-" He stopped suddenly and looked at Brenna, "Did you say tall, dark, and handsome."

"Yes, and I stand by every word. If I weren't so attracted by your mind, by your looks alone, I would think you would be worth a try."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Are you attempting to flirt with me, Miss Ryan?"

"I might be, Mr. Holmes. Is it working, or are you so offended that I find you so attestable attractive?"

Sherlock coughed a little, taking note of the fact that his heat rate and pulse seemed to have increased. Over the many cases he had worked as a consulting detective, he had run into more than a few women who had attempted to plaster themselves all over him, a few even attempting to offer him sexual favors in addition to any payment he wanted. That had been one of the only parts of the job that he had rather detested. He had no idea why it should have been an issue; he didn't know why women found him so attractive. His mind was what he prided himself on; his physical state was of secondary concern, despite what John might have said when he constantly nagged Sherlock about eating and sleeping on a regular basis.

However, when Brenna told him that he was tall, dark and handsome; he didn't seem to mind too much. In fact, he rather liked it. He found that it made him want to respond in kind. It was truly fascinating to him that one woman, seemingly no different than any other on the face of the planet in looks or personality, should arouse such a reaction in him, and arouse was a rather key word in that assessment.

Oh, he knew that she was trying to get under his skin. That devilish gleam, the mischievous smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. Sherlock didn't really want to give voice to the thoughts which suddenly flashed through his mind. He felt his heart rate increase and his temperature was definitely higher. Looking for something to distract him. He turned to the rest of the clothing on the bench and grabbed the tie. Brenna watched him turning it over and over in his hands, as though it were some sort of complex puzzle. His eyes were set in such an expression of such intense concentration that Brenna burst out laughing.

Sherlock looked at her, almost hurt. "What?"

"You don't know how to wear one of those things do you?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Brenna, still smiling, took the tie from Sherlock's hand. Sherlock made a gagging noise when she started buttoning the last few buttons of his shirt. "Are you deliberately trying to strangle me?"

"Oh, man up, Sherlock." Said Brenna, as she put the tie around Sherlock's neck, and began to tie it. "I'm kind of glad that you don't wear ties. It covers up that lovely neck of yours."

Sherlock looked at her, slightly mystified. "My what?"

"Your neck. You can't say that you've never been complemented on it." She had finished the tie, but now her fingers were tracing the skin on Sherlock's neck, and he had to restrain himself by responding in kind with a bit more aggressive.

"I can't say that I recall." He said, realizing that his voice had dropped at least an octave.

"Well, good. You heard it from me first than."

"Stop looking at me like that." Said Sherlock.

"Like what?"

"That's the same look that you have when you're about to consume what you consider to be a particularly delectable dessert."

"Do you have some objection to that?"

"No but I'm trying to work, and your distracting me."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Said Brenna, who didn't sound sorry at all. In fact, she took a step closer to him, her breasts, Sherlock noticed, now pressed rather firmly into his chest. "Is there any way that I could make it up to you?"

"Do you really want our first time to be in the back locker room of a museum?"

"I've heard of worse places." She was smiling.

"Why are you smiling?"

"Nothing, it's just reassuring in a way." She looked at her, slightly mystified. "You have thought about it."

"Oh, for God's sake." Muttered Sherlock, deciding that he had had enough of Brenna getting the better of him during these particular games. He would simply have to resort to more drastic measures.

Brenna had always known that Sherlock was fast. But when it came to matter of intimacy, he tended to be a little hesitant. While she had been more than willing to move their relationship forward for a few months now, Sherlock was reluctant to do so. It was not a matter of not finding her attractive; more that he himself was uncomfortable with all forms of touch, no matter where it came from. All those expectations went out the window, when he suddenly grabbed her around the waist, pushed her against the lockers and more or less mashed his mouth against hers.

Brenna only had time to give a startled cry of surprise before it was joined by Sherlock's lips urgently claiming her own. Once she got over the initial shock that Sherlock had actually initiated a kiss, her body immediately began reveling in the wonderful feeling of his body melding against her own. She really couldn't think straight beyond that. Her mind had become a happy haze.

Sherlock was evidently enjoying himself. His arms were wrapped tightly around her waist. His lips were pressing firmly over her own. But that was necessarily enough sensation information to apparently come to a conclusion. His tongue made a move to maneuver into her mouth, encountering very little resistance when he finally managed to curl his tongue around hers. It elicited a moan from deep within her throat. It seemed that it caused an instinctual response, when she thrust her hips against Sherlock's, a move that produced more arousal in Sherlock's body.

The longer the kiss lasted, the more Sherlock was finding that this whole idea of snogging, though terribly unhygienic in theory, was certainly amazing in practice. The second that that was soon becoming evident was that breathing was, unfortunately, not transport. He needed to breath, and he suspected that Brenna was as well. However, he was also loath to break contact. Eventually, though, he found himself forced to pry himself from her lips, but not before delivering a nip to her lower lip.

For several minutes, the two of the remained in an embrace, their foreheads pressed together and breathing heavily. Sherlock noted that Brenna's lips were slightly swollen and her eyes were dilated.

"Well," he said, at last, "That was certainly interesting."

"Interesting." Brenna gasped, "You practically assault me in a back locker room, and all you can call it is interesting?"

"Well, do you have another word that would adequately describe it?" Brenna blushed heavily. Sherlock smiled. "Ah, I see. I seem to have finally managed to strike you speechless with my romantic overtures. I knew it would happen sooner or later. I must thank you for your help in a most helpful experiment."

"An experiment and just what were you trying to prove?"

"How to alleviate sexual tension. For two people like us who are in a relationship and who frequently work together, it will be most useful in the future to take care of it in the future."

"Oh, of course. Why didn't I think of that? So, this wasn't going to be a one off then.

"Of course not, it's poor practice to only repeat an experiment once. Besides, I need to get more of a chance to impress you."

"Right, well, I'll look forward to that, definitely."

"Yes, and now that tension is relieved, we can get back to our case. I imagine you have some observation to do in Wenceslas' office while I'm distracting her."

"In that case, shall we? Oh, just one question, Sherlock, are we only going to relieve sexual tension while on the job?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Well, I suppose we do some research on her own. We could enact different situations. It might be time saving."

Brenna grinned. "Role playing, Sherlock? I never knew you were into that aspect."

Sherlock's smug look faded. Mystified once more. "What are you talking about?"

Brenna laughed suddenly. She got the feeling that she was really going to be enjoying this. "Later, Sherlock. I'll be more than happy to show you."

* * *

You do have to love those moments when Sherlock is both totally clueless when it comes to matters of romance, but also shows that he might know more about it than he lets on. Please read and review.

Next chapter: Brenna does some observational snooping of her own, and finds conclusive evidence regarding just what it is Ramona had planned with the Vermeer.


	11. Observational Snooping

Observational Snooping:

Brenna had gotten to the point in her investigation with Wenceslas where she was perfectly willing to go beyond interrogation, and resort to snooping through her private e-mails. Though Ramona may not have directly responsible for the murder of Alex Woodbridge, she was most likely aware of it in some way or another, if her reaction to the news that he had gone missing could be any indication. And if that was the case, there would be something in her computer about it.

By the time she got back to her desk, it seemed that Romana had already noticed Sherlock. "Regina," she barked when she caught sight of Brenna, "Come here and look at this."

She went over to Ramona, who was looking at the image on the security camera. "I'm just seeing a security guard in the Vermeer room. What's the problem?"

"The problem is that he shouldn't be lingering near that painting."

"Why? What should be the harm?"

"Because that's exactly what happened-" She stopped suddenly and took off on a completely different direction. "You should be paying more attention."

"What? I'm sorry but I don't see what I-"

"I hired you to make sure that no one would get a good look at the painting until the unveiling. You seemed to understand how delicate the business it. Too much speculation beforehand could lead to questioning of the painting's authenticity."

"I'm sorry, Miss Wenceslas." Said Brenna, plaguing the part of the fawning yes woman while still wanting to punch the arrogant woman in the face for what she was saying. "I don't know who that man is. And I don't know why he's there."

Ramona stared at her for a moment, before she said, abruptly, "I'll just have to get rid of him. Hold all my calls."

"Right, of course, ma'am." Said Brenna, as Ramona hurried away.

But no sooner was she gone, than Brenna went to Ramona's office. She didn't know how much time she had, so she had to be fast. She accessed Ramona's e-mails, scanning them for any mention of the Vermeer. It didn't take her long to find out what she was looking for. They were a series of e-mails between Ramona, and what appeared to be an unnamed, most likely untraceable e-mail correspondent. They seemed to have been exchanging e-mails for several months, but it was the most recent ones that she found to be the most interesting. And as she scanned them, she began to understand just what Ramona had been planning all along.

Ramona had never meant to sell the painting. She had never even meant to show it. The night before the showing of the Vermeer, whoever Ramona was communicating with had hired a group of thieves to steal the painting from the walls of the Hickman Gallery. That was why the security had been shut off for the past few nights. Ramona had wanted to see how long it would take for the police to be notified, so that the thieves would have their window of opportunity in which to plan. With the painting gone, Ramona would have gotten the insurance money of thirty million pounds, and the lost Vermeer would have slipped back into the shadows of history, never to be heard from again. Ramona Wenceslas would never have had to worry about proving the painting's authenticity to skeptical onlookers.

However, it seemed that Alex Woodbridge had changed all of that. The most recent e-mails had him mentioned by name several times. Ramona had thought that he was begun to suspect something when he had been hanging around the painting and asking questions about it's origins. The mysterious person who had seemingly arranged this whole thing had merely said that he would take care of it. He had warned Ramona to stay quiet, or she would find herself missing out on her share of the thirty million.

The tone of the e-mails was more than a little ominous. Brenna now saw that this whole plot went much deeper than she had ever thought. She had to get this information to Alice as soon as possible. Even if she couldn't prove yet that the Vermeer was a fake, she now had something else on Ramona Wenceslas: accessory to murder and fraud.

Her concentration was interrupted by a beep from her phone. **Wenceslas and I are done. Finish whatever you are doing in her office. SH**

Brenna didn't bother to ask how Sherlock managed to deduce that she was in Ramona's office. She hurriedly left the office exactly as she had left it and the computer as well. She was exiting the office when she received a text, this one from Ramona. This one told her to meet her in the Vermeer room. Her day had just gotten better. Not only did she have proof of an attempted murder, she would also finally get a peak at the mysterious Vermeer. She was certain that if she could get a look at it, she could see what it was that made it a fake.

"You wanted to see me, Ramona?" She said. She made no mention of the fact that Ramona suddenly wanted her to see the Vermeer where she had been so bent before on _not_ letting her even come in the room. A good underling in the art world never asked such silly questions.

Ramona was standing in front of the painting. The troubled look that she had observed earlier in the morning seemed to have returned and it seemed to have intensified. "Did you manage to find out what that guard was doing here?" Brenna prodded.

"He was some sort of investigator, I think. Snooping around, trying to see if he could find out anything about the painting being a fake."

"He was some sort of investigator, I think. Snooping around, trying to see if he could find out anything about the painting being a fake."

"Well, there is always one or two of those around for a big painting's premiere. But it's not a fake, it's already been proven."

"Yes, yes of course." Said Ramona, with just the slightest hint of hesitation. "But, still, I do wonder sometimes…"

"What?" asked Brenna.

"Nothing." Said Ramona, "Come on, we still have a lot to get ready before tomorrow night's opening." She turned around abruptly, and began to walk out of the gallery. It seemed as though she wanted desperately to be out of the room which held the Vermeer.

But Brenna lingered for just a moment. The thing was, she had been stealing glances at the painting during the entire conversation, looking with a trained eye at the masterpiece, and a masterpiece it was. For the copy was some of the best wok that she had ever seen; Hector Branson had been a true genius. However, even the best of geniuses were capable of making mistakes if there materials were based on faulty information.

In this instance, Brenna knew what to look for. Her eyes had been drawn to a small pattern of golden dots and splashes of paint against the night sky over the Thames. The dots weren't supposed to be there, because they had existed for only one moment, nearly two hundred years after Vermeer had died. Brenna had to keep herself from smiling with triumph. She knew exactly how this painting was a fake. It was time to bring this Iron Bitch down.

Brenna surreptitiously texted Alice: **Evidence gathered. Accessory to murder, fraud and I know the painting is definitely a fake. BR**

Just a few minutes later, she received a reply. **Get down to the Yard as soon as you can. Assembling a team. AB**

* * *

It was going to be a late one at the Yard for members of the White Collar unit. Patrick and Trevor had come into the meeting, a along with Alice and Brenna. "I hope that you two have something good." Said Patrick, "I had to cut a date just to be here tonight."

"Too bad for you, Patrick." Said Alice, with exactly zero sympathy. "My husband is handling Lucy and Tracy tonight, both of them have the chicken pox. Believe me; I would almost be rather at home taking care of my two sick girls. Just shut up and we can all go back to our regular lives."

"So, what'd you find out at the Hickman" said Trevor, hoping to steer the conversation back to more neutral territory. "I assume that you must have, otherwise, none of us would be here."

"Well, I found out that Ramona Wenceslas was in on the plot to kill Alex Woodbridge. I saw in her e-mails that she was communicating with someone who directly threatened Woodbridge. Not to mention that she was trying to fraud out the insurance company that is insuring the painting."

"What do you mean?" asked Trevor.

"It's a common scheme for some of the shadier galleries. They make a big deal out of a painting that everyone knows is rare and valuable, and then something happens to it; it gets stolen or goes suddenly missing. The insurance company pays the value of the painting to the museum, and no one is any the wiser, unless they happen to be exposed by someone who managed to realize what was going on."

"Nice," said Patrick, "here I was thinking we would have to get her on something boring like trespassing."

"Not only that, I know why that Vermeer is a fake."

"Wow, the biggest non surprise of the year." Said Patrick, "How did you break the Vermeer code, O Wise One?"

"Because, O Lesser Mortal, a forgery is only as good as the materials that he has available. Though Hector Branson was a genius at foraging, I think that, in this case, he was aiming to far. There is only one source for what the sky looked like from that specific angle in the painting. Unfortunately, its several centuries too late. Anybody here ever heard of the Van Buren supernova?"

"Wasn't that a supernova discovered in 1858 by Clara Van Buren?" asked Trevor, which earned surprised looks from Alice and Patrick. "What? I read about her in UNI, I even wrote a few papers on her in astronomy. She was a woman astronomer who was largely ignored until the 1950's; she witnessed and researched at least twenty five major supernovas and other celestial phenomena. Her notes were found in the basement of a house, and ever since than she's been recognized as an innovator."

"Very good, Trevor." Said Brenna, "I'm glad to see that you're finally beginning to find your voice on this team. You should really start speaking up more often, we can't Patrick have all the limelight."

Trevor blushed at the praise and beamed, obviously quite delighted that he had gotten her attention. Brenna continued, "But the thing that needs to be remembered is that Clara Van Buren lived from 1825 to 1896. During that time she witnessed a supernova that has been subsequently named after her."

She slid over a picture of the Van Buren Supernova to Alice. "The exploding star that she witnessed occurred between the constellations of Orion and Ursa Major. And it only appeared in the sky in 1858."

"And you saw it in the Vermeer." Said Alice.

"Yes," said Brenna, "The right place in the night sky that the angle of the painting was taken from. However, it's the wrong time. How could Vermeer have painted a supernova he had never seen, and wouldn't occur for another 200 years?"

"Good work, Brenna." Said Patrick, "Even I have to take my hat off to you this time. I don't think anyone else would have been able to spot this."

"So, I'm thinking that it's time we bring this woman down." said Alice, "Brenna, tomorrow you're going to be losing your job, and your boss. I hope that's amenable to you?"

"Believe me, I won't object. After what I've been through the last few weeks, I'm not going to be complaining about you any time soon."

* * *

Just everyone is aware, the Van Buren supernova actually didn't exist. It was made up for the show, so I thought I might as well make up the history behind it. Please read and review.

Next chapter: The final trap is sprung on Ramona Wenceslas. But triumph is short lived when Brenna finally witnesses a phone call from Sherlock's mysterious bomber. The countdown adds no small amount of tension and drama as Sherlock once more grapples wits with his unseen enemy


	12. Countdown

Have a little bit of downtime before I have to rush off to my next class (college can be such a pain sometimes, even if I actually enjoy what I am learning for the most part), so I am taking the time to post a new chapter. Enjoy!

Countdown:

Brenna had to admit, she sometimes got a wicked pleasure out of witnessing the arrests of criminals. That seemed slightly disloyal; she certainly hadn't felt anything like that at her own arrest. However, sometimes it felt really good being on the right side of the law, especially when it came to taking down bad guys with seemingly no real redeeming qualities. Ramona Wenceslas was one such person, and Brenna, for one, could not wait to see the look on her face when the Curator would finally be dragged off to prison.

However, things did not go exactly as she had she planned. For one thing, when she got to the museum, she was startled to learn that the police were already paying Ramona a visit, only it wasn't Alice Bennett who was there. It was her brother, Lestrade and strangely enough, Sherlock and John. She learned that they had gotten there a half an hour before, Sherlock brazenly demanding to see the Vermeer. She was slightly worried that it seemed to be taking Sherlock so long to understand why the painting was a fake.

When Alice arrived with Patrick and a few other officers, she saw by the look on her friend's face that something was wrong. "Alice, Sherlock's already beat you to it, I'm afraid."

"Well, I'm not surprised. There's been another hit by the Gollem."

"What? Who this time?"

"A Professor Janice Cairns. She works at a planetarium that Woodbridge used to go to a lot during his off days. The two were friends, apparently. I should say that she did work there. Sherlock and John didn't get there in time. Alex must have told her his suspicions about the painting, seeing as he was an amateur star gazer."

"That's who Alex was calling when I interrupted him the other day." Said Brenna, "He probably wanted to be sure that his suspicions were correct by checking with an expert."

"Either way, another person is dead over this bloody painting. Masterpiece or no, that's one body to many. I'm ready to take this bitch down."

"I certainly won't argue with you."

They went through the Hickman Gallery, until they entered the room where the supposed Vermeer was being kept. Sure enough, there was Sherlock, John, Lestrade and Ramona all gathered around the painting. Sherlock seemed to typing something furiously into his phone, no doubt trying to figure out how the painting was a fake. Ordinarily, she might have felt a degree of smugness that she had managed to solve a case before he had, but that wasn't necessarily the way she was feeling now. She couldn't help but remember that someone's life could very well still be hanging on the outcome of this case. She didn't want Sherlock to have to face another failure.

Ramona was still uptight about this entire thing. It was quite evident that she didn't want Sherlock to be there, though whether that was because she didn't want Sherlock to guess her secret, or because she simply found his presence annoying. Sometimes, with Sherlock, it was very hard to distinguish the two.

"Inspector, my time is being wasted." She said, with a sneer, "Would you mind showing yourself, and your friends out."

"I'm sure that they would be happy to be shown out." said Alice, as she stepped forward into the room, "Especially when I'll be leading you out in front of me, in hand cuffs."

Ramona, John and Lestrade all gaped in shock at Alice's sudden appearance, along with Brenna and the rest of the retinue of officers who were present with them. Only Sherlock seemed totally unsurprised, indeed, he didn't even look up or speak, just continued typing madly on his phone, eyes set in intense concentration.

"What are you doing here?" asked Ramona.

"I just said that I'm going to arrest you. Do you need any more elaboration than that?"

"But that's ridiculous." Said Ramona, "I haven't done anything wrong."

"Yeah," said Patrick, as he came forward with the cuffs, "That's what they all say. Truth is, we've got you on fraud and forgery, and there's a chance we could get you on accessory to murder as well."

"You don't have any evidence." Ramona objected, though the fearful paranoia which had been lingering underneath the surface was starting to seep out into panic.

"We not only have evidence, but we have an air-tight witness." Alice motioned to Brenna, who waved at Ramona.

Ramona's eyes went wide. "You… You've been working for them all along? Spying on me? Going behind my back?"

"Pretty much." Said Brenna, "Of course, you were the only who lied first, so you really can't censure me for it. Besides, lying is the least of your worries. After all, you do have blood on your hands."

"What are you talking about? I haven't killed anyone."

"You have, actually." Said Alice, "Alex Woodbridge and Professor Cairns might still have been alive if you hadn't insisted on following our greed. If you had just come clean about the painting being a fake."

"It's not a fake!" shrieked Ramona, desperately.

"Yes, it is." Said Brenna, with the calm certainty of one who was absolutely confidant the truth. It was a rather stark contrast to Ramona's almost hysterical posturing, and her next words deflated Ramona completely. "I can prove it, too. You might as well give up on this, Ramona. It's over."

The fight seemed to have gone out of Ramona completely when she heard this. Her head went down, her shoulders drooped, and she meekly allowed Patrick to begin putting the cuffs on her. Lestrade and John had been watching this whole thing in silence. There didn't seem to be anything for them to do, so they had wisely decided to step back and let Alice make the arrest. Now that was out of the way, they might have started to ask questions. But, at that very moment, a shrill ring pierced the silence.

The tension in the room immediately rose, and both Lestrade and John's faces showed sudden worry. Sherlock's body snapped straight up. He whirled around holding a pink mobile in his hand. "The painting's a take." He said, with an almost desperate assurance.

Brenna hadn't been a witness to any of the calls from the Riddle Bomber (the somewhat macabre name which the mysterious bomber had been begun to be called by others in the Yard), which had kept Sherlock so tense over the last few days. However, the rumors around the Yard had more than filled in any missing details. She didn't need to be told that this was yet another one of them. And a person's life on the other end depended upon on him getting answer right.

However, there came no answer to either reconfirm or deny Sherlock's answer. There was just an ominous silence. "The painting's a fake. I solved it, I figured it out." Sherlock insisted, hoping for some sort of response.

Still, there was silence, an almost mocking silence, as if this architect of this riddle were deliberately teasing Sherlock, goading him into making a mistake. And the most disturbing thing of all was that it seemed to be working. Sherlock was on edge, his normally breezy confidence having all but disappeared. Replacing it now was a very real uncertainty. He was trying feverishly to keep a lid on his emotions so that he could focus on the case.

"The painting's a fake. That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed." This answer was not apparently good enough for whoever was on the other end, as the bomber stubbornly still refused to say anything at all. Sherlock realized that nothing less than a complete elaboration would suit. He squared his shoulders, and finally said in a voice that was barely controlled. "All right, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?" It was a concession that Sherlock hated to concede, but he had no choice. He had to give some sort of leeway for the next move in the game.

And the bomber was apparently ready to give it to him. The silence was finally broken, as a small, fearful voice, began intoning a countdown.

_TEN…_

Lestrade's face blanched with horror. "It's a kid." He said, "My God, it's a kid."

Brenna didn't doubt that an image of his son's face flashed through Lestrade's minds. If Sherlock failed, Lestrade would be feeling the pain in more ways than one.

_NINE…_

Sherlock, however, didn't even seem to notice the tension in the room. He only seemed to latch onto the fact that that he had been given more time, the amount did not matter. He whirled back to the painting, his eyes moving almost fast as the speed of the light, and words were coming out as fast as his thoughts. Not even Brenna could make out all that he was saying. Sherlock's incredible skills had taken him to a place where only he could go, and she could only hope that it would be enough.

_EIGHT…_

Sherlock's mind was racing. He had been given time, but even he knew that the clock was ticking. But would the bomber have given him any sort of time unless he thought that he was capable of finding it?

_SEVEN…_

But what if he couldn't? What if he had to face failure again? He wasn't sure that he could handle that paralyzing feeling again in such a short span of time.

_SIX…_

The desperation to beat the clock made Sherlock lose his nerve for one moment. He turned on Brenna and barked in a hard, abrupt manner. "Brenna, you said that you knew why this painting is a fake. This kid's gonna die. _Tell me_!"

The harshness in his voice made them all jump, even Brenna. But Sherlock immediately contradicted himself by snapping. "No, wait up. Shut up. Don't say anything. It only works if I solve it."

_FIVE…_

Turning back to the painting, he began to analyze it anew. What was it? Where was it? It had to be simple, oh so obvious. It was probably staring at him right in the face. He just had to find it.

_FOUR…_

And than, just like that. It had come to him. Of course, how could he have missed it? "Oh, oh, John, in the planetarium, you heard it too."

_THREE…_

Pushing the pink phone into Lestrade's hand, he hurried off a few paces, checking on his phone the date of the phenomenon he had seen in the painting. His face split an almost manic smile as he saw the answer. Of course, this was absolutely brilliant. He was loving this.

_TWO…_

The little group of witnesses had said nothing during this entire thing, the rising tension and fear that the innocent voice counting down its own doom was almost to nightmarish to accept as real. However, when Sherlock actually started laughing, Lestrade could stand no more. "SHERLOCK!" He fairly roared, conveying in a single word the message that if Sherlock didn't hurry up and he got this kid killed, Lestrade would personally break every bone in his body.

However at the last possible second, Sherlock came running back, snatched the phone from Lestrade and declared triumphantly. "The Van Buren Supernova!"

For a terrible, breathless moment, there was silence. Even Sherlock wondered if had been to late yet again. But then, that tiny, fearful voice spoke once more. "Please, is anyone there? Please, help me."

Everyone breathing an enormous sigh of relief, including Sherlock himself. "Here you go" he said, handing the pink phone to Lestrade. "Find out where he is and pick him up." He turned back to the painting, and pointed to the irregular shape of glowing dots in the night sky. "The Van Buren Supernova, an exploding star only appeared in the sky in 1858."

He moved away from the painting, Brenna following him closely. John, who was imminently relieved, also came to take a closer look at the painting. "So, how could it have been painted in the 1640's?"

Brenna went to Sherlock. The consulting detective was slightly jittery; he had come very close to losing once more, and even if he was hiding it very well, his relief was all to obvious. "Are you all right?" She asked.

Sherlock straightened and turned to look at her. "What? Of course, I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be?"

Brenna smiled a little and put a hand on his shoulder. "You don't always have to pretend to be strong Sherlock. Not with me."

For a second, Sherlock's mask of perfect control slipped. Brenna was able to see just how much the past few days had affected him. He was quite exhausted, both physically and emotionally. He was under a great deal of stress, and yet, he was endeavoring, even now, to stay strong. But Brenna understood. She understood perfectly, and Sherlock was grateful that she did so. He reached up to take hold of the hand that was on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly. It was a small gesture in itself, but right then, it was enough."

And such times did not last long. The next moment, Sherlock was back to himself again. "How long, by the way?"

"Excuse me?"

"The painting, how long did it take you to realize that it was a fake?"

"Oh, not long, five, maybe ten minutes."

Sherlock stared at her, frowning in annoyance when he thought that it had actually taken him a lot longer. "Well, I still managed to figure it out under intense pressure, which is something you couldn't have done, I'm sure."

"That's something you can't prove, Sherlock, so it's illogical to even say it."

Sherlock might have had a sharp remark for her, but Alice called to them both to follow along. They were going to be needing them when they interrogated Wenceslas.

* * *

Please read and review.

Next chapter: Sherlock finally receives a final confirmation that the unknown perpetrator of all the riddle for the past few days is indeed Moriarty. And while his mind sorts out the implications of what that means, he takes the time to bring Brenna and John along to solve the case which his brother brought to him at the very start. However, there is still one more test to go, and not even Sherlock could have predicted how this great game would end.


	13. Criminal Whispers

Criminal Whispers:

In Lestrade's office at Scotland Yard, Wenceslas looked smaller and frailer than Brenna had ever seen her. She might have been sorry for the former museum director, but as she had more or less brought it all upon himself, Brenna could only feel so much sympathy.

"Bohemian stationary, an assassin named after a Prague legend, and you, Miss Wenceslas," Sherlock was saying, "This whole case has a distinctly Czech feeling. Is that were this leads?"

Wenceslas remained silent and didn't answer. "What are we looking at, Inspectors?" Sherlock pointedly asked both Alice and Lestrade.

Lestrade was really making no attempt to hide his disgust of Wenceslas. He clearly relished listing the crimes of which Wenceslas was being accused. "Well, let's see, fraud, conspiracy, accessory after the fact, the death of the old woman, all the people in the flat…"

That finally got a rise out of Ramona. "Look, I didn't know about any of that." She cried, the fear evident in her eyes. "Please, you have to believe me. I just wanted my share, of the thirty million."

"And yet you were still quite willing to stand by and let two other people get killed for the sake of your greed." Said Alice.

"But, I didn't know-"

"Spare me your excuses, Miss Wenceslas." Said Alice, sharply, "We have the e-mails; we know that you were contact with someone who was going to take care of Alex Woodbridge. You can't honestly tell me that you didn't at least think of the deeper implications of what that meant."

She leaned in closer, her grey eyes smoldering, and her tone having dropped to a dangerous level. "What we have on you right now, could send away for 25 years, maybe more. And I don't care if you didn't know anything else. Because of you two people are dead. An innocent boy could have been one their number; would you have been able to live with yourself with that knowledge? Would you have cared at all?"

Like a submissive dog, under Alice's piercing stare, Ramona looked down. Alice continued, "Well, I can tell you that's not an option. I only want to know if you're willing to go to prison with a guilty conscious or one slightly less so. Depending on how you want to feel, a few years might be knocked off of your sentence. It's entirely up to you. But, I would advise you to start talking."

Ramona seemed to take a moment to collect her thoughts, before she said, "I met a little old man in Argentina. A genius, I mean, brushwork was immaculate, could have fooled anyone." Sherlock and Brenna both scoffed. Ramona was quick to amend her last statement. "Almost anymore. But I wasn't sure how to go about convincing the world that the picture was genuine. It was just a spark. An idea that he blew into a flame."

Sherlock's ears perked up when he heard this. "Who?" He demanded, eagerly.

"I don't know." Alice and Lestrade were clearly skeptical about this claim, but Ramona protested, "Really, I don't. And it did take time, but eventually, I was put in touch with people, his people. Though there was never any real contact, rumors, whispers."

Sherlock's entire attitude had become one of acute interest. He was almost leaning off the edge of his chair, straining to catch even the tiniest scrap of information on his unseen opponent. "And did those whispers have a name?"

For a moment, Ramona didn't answer. It seemed that even she was afraid to speak the name of such a notorious criminal. "Moriarty." She at last hesitantly stated.

But that seemed to be all that Sherlock needed to know. Leaning back in his chair, he smiled in an odd, almost excited manner. The game was continuing, and not he knew for sure who his opponent was, he fully intended to win.

* * *

After Ramona had been booked, there was little reason for either Sherlock or Ramona to stick around. And Sherlock actually seemed eager to leave. "Why are you so eager to get away from me?" Brenna asked.

"What makes you think that I'm trying to get away from you?" said Sherlock, "I need to see John."

Brenna only now remembered that John hadn't come with them to the Yard. "Why? What has John been doing?"

"I'll tell you on the way there."

"The way where? How do you even know where John is?" Sherlock looked at her. "Right, you'll tell me on the way. I still have to get permission from Alice."

"What do you need permission from me for?" asked Alice, as she came up to them.

"Brenna needs to with me to work on another case." Sherlock stated, as though the matter were already decided.

"Thank you for speaking with me about how I wanted to spend the rest of my day."

"And thank you for just assuming I would give my permission."

Sherlock seemed puzzled by their sarcasm. "Well, there isn't a problem is there?"

Alice looked at Brenna. "Well, what do you say, Brenna? You feel like going from grand art theft to a probable murder case?"

"Oh, why not, it might be relaxing."

"Go on then." Said Alice, with a smile, "I don't need you for anything else. Just get your report to me by tomorrow. Plus, I'm sure that you two want to spend some time together."

"It's just a case." Protested Sherlock, who never really liked people thinking that his enjoyment of the cases he worked with Brenna were ever clouded by sentimental ideas.

However, Alice wasn't buying it. "Of course, Sherlock, of course."

* * *

Sherlock explained everything to Brenna on the way to whatever it was they were going. Apparently, the case which his brother had brought him only a few days before was not quite so boring. Sherlock had evidently been keeping an eye on the death of Andrew West, through the eyes of John, no less.

"John?" questioned Brenna, in the cab, "You actually let John take a case for you?"

"Yes, why not? John has an average mind, and he doesn't understand the important details as quickly as he should, but he is somewhat faster than normal people."

"Wow, coming from you that's very nearly a compliment. And just how did he do?"

"Quite well, actually. Even if he did come to the right conclusion rather slowly. But that's hardly his fault. Mycroft directed him to West's fiancée first. It should have been to the Battersea Train Station."

"Is that where we're going?"

"Yes, John is finally going in the right direction, and I believe that he's about to make a major break-through."

"Les me guess, you already know who killed West."

"Of course, it's obvious."

"Of course, it is." Muttered Brenna, "Are you going to inform him of that yourself, or make him guess?"

"I don't know. I'll see where my mood takes me."

Brenna rolled her eyes and refrained to comment. They arrived at the station, and wound their way along the various track lines and parked trains, until they finally came to the place where Andrew West had been killed. Sure enough, there was John, kneeling beside the track, staring at the lines intensely. Right as they were coming up to him, the lines on the tracks switched directions. "Points." Said Sherlock.

John had been right on the verge of making that same deduction, and when he heard it spoken behind him, he exclaimed excitedly. "Yes," whirling around and looking at Sherlock and Brenna.

"Knew you'd get there, eventually. Andrew West wasn't killed here, that's why there's so little blood."

"How long have you been following me?" John asked, a little exasperated that Sherlock had actually been working the case all along without him.

"Since the start." said Sherlock, as though it should have been obvious. "You don't think that I would give up on a case like this just to spite my brother do you?"

"Wouldn't you?" said Brenna, with a grin, "I might mention this little incident to Mycroft. It might make for interesting conversations for you two in the future."

Sherlock shot Brenna a daggerish glare, before saying to John, "Come one, we have a little but of burglary to do. It's a good thing we brought a thief along with us."

"Technically, we're not going to be stealing anything." Said Brenna, as they began walking. "This memory stick belonged to the government in the first place. We'll simply be returning it to the proper owners."

"But we might still be doing some breaking and entering." Said Sherlock.

"Are we going to be breaking anything?"

"Most likely not."

"That won't be a problem either. The breaking comes from the actual entering. Ergo, if we don't anything, we won't be breaking any laws."

John looked at Brenna with a raised eyebrow. "Is this how you justified your criminal exploits?"

"The one thing that you learn about being a thief, John, is that legalistic terms are very open to interpretation. It takes care of a lot of moral headaches if you can find out the loopholes."

* * *

Their ultimate destination took them to a neighborhood of old homes that ran along the tracks. The day was continually punctuated by the sound of the rattling over the tracks.

"Missile defense plans haven't left the country, otherwise Mycroft's people would know about it. Despite what people think, we do still have a secret service."

"Yeah, I know." Said John, wryly, "I've met them."

"Which means whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it. My money's on the latter. We're here."

They turned to the right and made their way up the steps to the door of an apartment building. "Brenna, work your magic." Said Sherlock, indicating the door.

"Right, this kind of lock, shouldn't take anymore than a few minutes."

"Sherlock, what if there's someone in."

"There isn't." said Sherlock.

It took only a few seconds for Brenna to get the lock on the door to the flat open.

"Sherlock, where are we?" John asked, as they proceeded into the flat.

"Oh, didn't I say? Joe Harrison's flat."

"Joe Harrison?" said John.

"Yes he stole the memory stick, killed his prospective brother-in-law." Sherlock had gone over to the window sill, and as he was speaking, he had crouched down so that they were at eye level. There, he saw what he was hoping to see: tiny flecks of red against the white. He got out his magnifying glass to get a closer look. He knew blood when he saw it.

"But why?" John asked.

The sound of the door opening caused them all to turn. "Let's ask him." Sherlock suggested.

John moved towards the door, reaching for his gun. When he got to the doorway, he was just in time to catch Joe Harrison carrying his bike into the flat. Joe started like a cornered deer, and he seemed to be lifting his bike to use as a weapon to charge John, but John's gun was already raised, and in his voice, there was no chance of arguing. "Don't, just don't!"

Joe knew that he was caught in that moment. Any further attempt at fighting was useless. A few minutes later, he was sitting on the sofa. It was clear that his remorse and guilt had been eating at him all this time. "I didn't mean… It wasn't supposed to… Oh, God what's Lucy going to say?"

"Why did you kill him?" asked John.

"It was an accident, I swear."

"But stealing the plans for the missile defense program wasn't an accident, was it?"

"I started dealing drugs. I mean, the bike thing's a great cover, right? I don't know how it happened, but it just got out of hand. I owe people thousands, serious people. Then, at Westy's engagement do, he starts talking about his job. You know, normally he's so careful. But that night, he really opened up. Told me about these plans, beyond top secret. He even waved the plans in front of me. You often hear about these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish heaps and what not. It was pretty easy taking the plans off of him, he was so plastered. The next time, I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew."

"What happened?" asked John.

He didn't respond at first, though his silence spoke volumes in and of itself. "I pushed him down the stairs." He admitted, at last, "Smashed in his skill. I thought about calling an ambulance, but it was too late. I dragged him up here, and just sat in the dark, thinking."

The distant call of a train horn rapidly approached the row of houses. "Until a neat little idea popped into your head." Said Sherlock, as the rest of the blanks became filled. "You though, how simple it would be if Andrew West happened to be found on a train line, with a smashed in head. Surely it would look more like suicide than foul play. So, you opened the window, dragged him over the sill and placed him on top of the train carrying Andrew West way away from here. Might have gone on forever had it not been for the points."

Silence filled the room, until John finally asked. "Do you still have the memory stick?"

Joe nodded. "Go, and fetch it for me." Said Sherlock, "If you wouldn't mind." It was far from being a request."

Joe went to go and get it. That left the thee of them in the room alone. Sherlock waited until he was sure that they wouldn't be overheard, before going over to John and saying in a low voice. "So, distraction over, the game continues."

"Unless it's over." Said John, "We haven't heard anything from our bomber."

"Five pips, remember, John?" said Sherlock, "We've only had four."

* * *

Please read and review.

Next chapter: A brief break before we continue to the epic final confrontation of the great game. Brenna has a challenge of her own to face when she comes back into a contact with a member of her family. Will it be merely a repeat of rejection and hurt, or will it be a chance to begin healing bonds?


	14. Healing Bonds

Here is the next chapter of A Thief's Game. It introduces a new character, one of Brenna's sister, Martha. She plays a big part in the Flashback sequences that I am planning for the next story in A Thief's Life. I guess that also confirms it, I am going to be continuing this series into Season 2 of Sherlock, all the way up to a Reichenbach Fall. As this particular installment is almost finished, I will be putting a few little teasers as to what to expect in the next season at the end of the last chapter. Just something to look forward to. In the meantime, please enjoy this chapter.

Healing Bonds:

It was the end of a long and difficult week for Brenna. After going through a trying undercover assignment, revealing a fraudulent gallery owner and uncovering a brilliant forgery, not to mention helping to track down a murderer and top secret plans for a missile defense system, she ordinarily would have curled up on the couch with a good book and Lily for cuddling. However, there was one more test that Brenna had to face, and to be quite honest, it frightened her more than any dangerous assignment that the police could give her.

She was going to have dinner with a sister that she hadn't spoken to in over two years.

Over the past few months, she had been writing back and forth with Martha. Her sister had been the first one to open contact, and her letter had come as nothing short of a surprise to Brenna, and she had delayed for a week before answering, for fear that it could not be true. Their correspondence had not been effusive, by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, it sometimes struck Brenna as being down right ordinary, as though she and Martha had communicated every week their entire lives. However, when Martha had mentioned that she would be in town that week and wanted to have dinner, Brenna had not been able to say no.

Feeling like she was meeting a boy she had secretly had a crush on for years on a first date, she had nervously prepared, and had arrived at the restaurant a full fifteen minutes early, and waited anxiously to see if Martha would even show up. When she caught sight of her coming towards the table, she got to her feet. Once Martha got there, the two sisters stood staring awkwardly at each other for a long time. "I was almost half afraid that you wouldn't show up." Brenna said, at least.

"I'll be honest with you, I wasn't sure if I was coming either." Martha admitted.

Somehow, the knowledge that they had both been nervous about this meeting made them feel a little better. Once they had ordered, Brenna said, "I was surprised when I received your first letter." Brenna said. "After over two years of not hearing from you, I wasn't sure how to react."

"It was something that I have been meaning to do for awhile." Said Martha. "It really should have been done sooner. But, something always kept me back."

"Are you glad that you did it?"

"I hope that I will be. To be honest, the reason why I wanted to do it was because I thought it was time that I tried to find some answers, and only you could give them to me."

"What kind of questions did you want answers to?"

"Actually," admitted Martha, after along moment of silence, "there is probably only one which matters right now."

Brenna took a deep breath and sat back in her chair. "I think that I can already guess what that is."

"Why, Brenna? Why did you leave us? I'm not asking out of anger or resentment, though I won't deny that even I felt that. Now, I just feel so confused and conflicted whenever I think about it. I just want to know why."

Brenna opened her mouth, but she could think of nothing to say. She had the smoothest tongue of anyone she knew. She could concoct a lie from thin air; one that would withstand even the strongest scrutiny (or at least, allowed her enough time to get away). But this, this she could not talk her way out of. This was the hardest part of her past that she had to face, and it was so easy to just keep it locked away in a dark corner of her mind. But she couldn't do that with Martha. Martha deserved to know.

"I can't explain it any way that you might fully understand. You don't know what went through my mind when I was working a heist, when I was breaking into a safe with a million dollars worth of jewels, or sneaking into a museum with top notch security to steal an old masterpiece that no one said could ever be taken. Some of it was the money, but there was always something more that made me keep doing it. It was the feeing of knowing that I was doing something that was supposed to be impossible, that I was racing against the clock. It filled me with an excitement and an adrenaline that I soon began to crave. I couldn't live without it, and I would do anything to get it."

She paused and looked at Martha, hoping that she would try to understand what she was driving at. Martha was listening intently, with a serious, thoughtful expression on her face. It was clear that she was processing everything that Brenna was saying. At last, she spoke, "So, you're saying that you were addicted?"

"Yes, in a manner of speaking. I know that it sounds crazy, but it's true. And what addict can ever rationally explain why they keep going back to whatever it is they crave? They know that it's wrong, that it hurts the people closest to them, but they just keep going back for more and more. They can't stop themselves. I can't explain it any other way."

"I think that I understand, a little." Said Martha, after a moment, "What made you stop?"

Brenna looked down, and she felt tears ting her eyes as she remembered that day long ago when she had seen her father's casket being lowered into the ground. "I hit bottom. I heard that dad had died, and I realized that I had wasted four years of my life chasing something that didn't exist. You don't know how often I regret the fact that I never got to say goodbye, that I had never had the chance to tell him how sorry I was."

For a long time, Martha was silent, as she watched Brenna struggling with her feelings. She was herself going through a struggle, as she wrestled with herself about whether or not she should tell Brenna what she knew. At last, she decided that she had come here to try and begin to heal their family bonds. Brenna had told her something that was difficult. She owed her no less than the same. "Do you know that Lizzy confronted us about the way we treated you?"

Brenna looked up, her eyes flashing with surprise. "What? But I specifically told her not to make a scene at the funeral."

"She didn't. This was a few weeks after the funeral. She told us all that though she would never bring up the subject again, she could not let our behavior pass. She said that we had done badly the entire thing. She wanted to know how we could have been so cruel and unfeeling to you, at the very moment when you had tried to show that you were ready to try and make a new start. It wasn't what dad wanted, and we had dishonored his memory by refusing you a place at his funeral. None of us could say anything in our own defense, because deep down, we all knew that she was right, I especially. If they had all known what I had known…"

"What do you mean? What did you know?"

"I never told anyone this, Brenna, but the night before dad died, he called me. It seemed like a regular call at first, he said hello to his grandkids, asked Nicholas how his practice was. But when he talked to me, he started to say some strange things. He told me that he had been thinking about you a lot, and that he sometimes wished he could have had a way to bring you home. His greatest wish was just to see us all as a family again. He knew that there were things which you would have had to pay for, but that there would have been time. He just wanted to know that you were safe and that you were loved. As I look back on it, I almost wonder if he didn't know he was going to die, and that he wanted to some way to pass that message along to you."

Throughout Martha's entire speech, Brenna had been listening with increasing shock and a feeling that could only be described as a great and overwhelming sadness. It was crippling sometimes, the grief that she still felt for her father. And when she was reminded of moments like this, she couldn't control herself. She didn't try to hide the tears that were now flowing down her cheeks. Martha, after watching Brenna, hesitantly reached and took her hand, giving her comfort.

"I wanted to tell you this, Brenna. Several times, I thought of picking up the phone and confessing it. But at the time, the pain was still to raw. I was at war between different parts of myself. I can see now, though, that whatever you might have done, I was wrong to not tell you, or even to say anything in your defense. That's really why I wrote to you, why I wanted to get in contact with you. I have been teaching my children the importance of forgiveness, but I was beginning to realize that my lessons would never take root if I didn't practice what I preached in the relationships that were closest to me. I suppose what I wanted to say all along is that I'm sorry, Brenna."

Brenna's eyes met those of her sister. "Would you accept my forgiveness if I offered it?"

Martha smiled. "Yes, of course."

Both of them knew, that one single dinner could not take the place of all the many years which they had lost. But it was a beginning. As they were winding down, however, Martha took one more step which not even Brenna had been expecting. "Brenna, Nicholas has to come to London next month in order to prosecute a case. The children will be coming with us. Would you like to meet them?"

Brenna's heart leapt at the invitation. "Of course, I have wanted to meet them for such a long time." she paused, before asking, somewhat nervously, "What… what have you told them about me?"

"I told them what they needed to know, what they could understand. I told them that you've been gone for a long time, trying to make up for some mistakes that you've made."

"That's actually very accurate. Thank you, Martha. That means a lot to me."

When the dinner was over, both sisters could not help but feel that something definite had changed. They felt like they were finally connected to each other, after a distance of time and space which had lasted for far too long. The hug which they shared was a little awkward, but also one of genuine affection. They hoped that it was only the beginning of a new relationship.

* * *

Brenna felt like she was floating on air after her dinner with Martha. She felt that almost nothing could spoil her mood. So, she decided to spend a few hours at Baker St. with Sherlock and John afterwards to see if that theory could hold.

It was strange how easily the three of them had fallen into a bizarrely normal routine. John and Brenna were working on their laptops, and Sherlock was sitting in his chair, knees drawn up to his chest, watching some awful talk show on the telly. The pink phone was lying on the armrest. It hadn't rung since the museum, and Sherlock, still convinced that there was a fifth test he had to pass, was not taking the tension very well. His body was twitching spasmodically with pent-up energy, and Brenna thought he resembled a hamster on an exercise wheel, constantly moving, but going nowhere.

The TV show didn't seem to be helping either. "No, of course he's not the boy's father." He suddenly shouted to the set. "Look, at the turn ups on his jeans."

"I knew it was a mistake." John commented with a grin.

"Hmm?" Sherlock inquired, still focusing intently on the screen.

"Getting you in crap telly."

"It's better than him taking it out on the wall." Said Brenna, jerking her head at the yellow smiley face on the wall behind her.

"True enough." Said John, "That's going to be an awful thing to fix up."

"Leave it." Said Brenna, "Gives that side of the room some character."

"As if that's something this flat didn't have enough of." Muttered John, "By the way, did you give Mycroft the memory stick?"

"Yep," said Sherlock, "He was the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood, again."

Brenna raised her eyes briefly from her screen, staring at Sherlock for a few seconds, before shaking her head and returning to her work.

"Waiting for you to admit it." Said John, who hadn't noticed Brenna's look, and neither did Sherlock for that matter. "That a little knowledge of the solar system would have helped you clear up the matter of the fake painting a lot quicker."

"Didn't help you though, did it?" Sherlock pointed out.

"No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective."

"Thanks heavens for that." Said Brenna, with a grin "I don't think that the world could handle any more than one."

John agreed to this with a laugh, and said, "I won't be in for tea. I'll be at Sarah's." He got to his feet and started to move towards the door. "There's some of that left over risotto in the fridge. Milk, we need milk."

"I'll get some." Said Sherlock suddenly.

John turned around in surprise, staring at Sherlock. Sherlock never volunteered to get the shopping. "You will?" Sherlock nodded, still watching the telly. "And some beans, too?"

Sherlock apparently had no qualms about agreeing to this as well. However, John may not have noticed the almost insistent quality that Sherlock acquiesced, as though he were quite impatient that John should leave. However, Brenna noticed. Indeed, she had noticed quite a bit. And when Sherlock left, she closed her laptop and turned to Sherlock. "So, are you going to tell John?"

Very few things actually caught Sherlock by surprise. He was most often able to anticipate any sort of loophole. However, if there was anything that he had learned about Brenna that he always needed to remember, it was to expect the unexpected. Therefore it, it was really no surprise that Brenna had been able to anticipate his plans so easily.

"Tell John what?"

"Oh, I don't know, that you didn't actually give the memory stick back to Mycroft, and that you're planning on using it to lure whoever's been responsible for sending you on these chases, Moriarty, I assume."

Sherlock gaped at her, and for a moment, he looked utterly ridiculous. "Sherlock, you still have much to learn about lying convincingly. I could believe that Mycroft would be thrilled to get the memory stick back, but offering you a knighthood is a bit excessive. And then there this little gem, as well." She removed the memory stick from her pocket. "You really need to be more aware of your personal belongings, Sherlock. I was able to life this off of you far too easily."

Sherlock was rendered speechless for approximately seven seconds, which was quite a long time when it came to Sherlock. When he did speak again, all he was able to deliver were incoherent mumblings. Despite herself, Brenna burst out laughing. She got up from her chair, and moved to the one that John had been occupying. "Don't worry, Sherlock. You'll notice I didn't mention it to John."

"How did you guess?" Sherlock finally asked.

"I took a note from you and observed."

Sherlock groaned. "You're not going to start going on about my ears, are you?"

Brenna chuckled, and kissed one of Sherlock's ears, as she put her arms around his neck. "Why not, Sherlock? You're ears are one of your best features. The point is, you have something planned, something that you don't want to tell John about, because you know that he will follow you."

"And I suppose you'll insist on following me now that you know about it." Sherlock muttered, in obvious frustration. "I can't allow it. It's far dangerous."

"Sherlock, who was it that broke into any number of secure villas and broke the security of a dozen famous museums, risking detection and arrest every moment? I'm used to risk. I'm coming with you, so you'll just have to get used to the idea. The only thing that I want to know is why?"

Sherlock was silent, before he finally answered in a quiet voice. "I have to know, Brenna. I have to know who is doing this. I have never encountered anyone like this before in all of my cases. Whoever is doing this, he's just like me, but also very different. I can't explain it, but it's just something I have to do."

Brenna nodded, understanding. "Which is exactly why I'm going with you. I'm not letting you go through this alone if I can possibly help it."

Sherlock turned to look at her. "I can't possibly argue with you, can I?"

"You could certainly try."

"But it would be a waste of time."

"Excellent deduction, Sherlock. Especially when I consider how much you do hate to waste time. So, I suggest you get on with it."

Sherlock did not respond to that. Instead, he took out his computer, and typed a message into his website blog. Other entries from the previous few days were still present, but this final one would be the clincher. _Found: Bruce-Pardington plans. Please collect. Pool. Midnight._

The last movement in the game had begun. The final gambit had been thrown. In a short time, two equally brilliant and dangerous opponents would meet face to face for the first time. How it would turn out was really anyone's guess. Only one thing was certain: there would be only one winner.

* * *

Please read and review.

Next chapter: The long awaited meeting between Sherlock and his unseen nemesis Moriarty takes place. However, there is a twist that not even Brenna could have predicted. It turns out that Moriarty has played an integral role in Brenna's past, and he will continue to do so in her future.


	15. The Great Game

Well, here it is, the moment that everyone has been waiting for: the confrontation between Sherlock and Moriarty. How does the background of a criminal mastermind intertwine with that of not the Consulting Detective, but the woman he loves as well? This chapter answers that question, as well as bringing up a few others. Enjoy!

The Great Game:

The pool was an eerily quiet place in the middle of the night. Water reflected rippling shadows on the walls and ceiling. Chlorine hung thick in the air. The stillness of the place was almost anticipatory, as if there was something great coming to a head, and that would be almost accurate.

When Sherlock and Brenna came into the room, Sherlock said to her, "Stay behind me, and don't try to make any sudden moves. I'm sure he'll just be interested in me, but I can't run the risk of putting you in any danger."

Brenna nodded, finding it touching that Sherlock should be so concerned for her safety. Sherlock looked around him, and saw that the room was empty, with no sign of another living soul, save the two of them. "I brought a little getting to know you present." Said Sherlock, holding up a memory stick that contained the plans. "All your puzzles, making me dance, all to distract me from this."

A door opened behind them, and when Sherlock turned around, he froze in complete shock. There was John, standing in front of them. He was wearing a heavy parka, and his entire body was rigid and tense. However, Sherlock did not see that. His powers of deduction failed him, and all he was able to see was that it was John who was standing in front of him. It was John who had been with him all this time, who had known all of Sherlock's moods. Could it be that John had been the one who been behind everything. "John," He uttered in disbelief. "What the hell…"

"This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?" said John, "Bet you never saw this coming."

For a brief, terrible, second, Sherlock's world cracked and came within mere fractions of Shattering completely. It must be admitted that Sherlock did not form attachments easily. He avoided them almost religiously, for the simple reason that they clouded his judgment and made it impossible for him to think clearly. But, it's very difficult for anyone to go through life completely devoid of any attachments. In the case of Sherlock, those rare people that were able to get under his skin, he was incredibly protective of. People like Mrs. Hudson, Brenna and John, were those that he would go to extreme, almost obsessive lengths to protect. Sherlock did not allow himself feel much, but what he did, he felt intensely.

And because he was so protective, that meant if even one person turned against him, his entire foundation could very well be doomed. So, when he thought for one moment that John was the one responsible for threatening and killing so many people (John, who was supposed to be the moral one of the team), he was alone and helpless.

But that only lasted for a moment. John suddenly pulled aside the parka he was wearing, showing the bomb that was strapped to his chest, and the angry red dot of a sniper rifle fixed to his body. "What would you like me to make him say next? Gottle of gear, gottle of-"

"Stop it!" Sherlock snarled, as he came forward a few more steps, his blue eyes searching all around him desperately for whoever might have been holding the gun. Now that he knew that John was actually in danger, a protective instinct welled within him. He had to protect John, John could not die. The game had become far more personal now.

"Nice touch this" sad John, repeating the words which were being spoken into his ear. "The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him." John seemed to wince slightly at the next words but he pushed on, "I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart."

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded. "Show yourself."

The creaking of a door opened on the other side of the pool caught the attention of everyone. Brenna caught the sight of a shadow of a body, but she wasn't able to see who it might be. However, she did hear the slightly high pitched, manic voice from that shadow, one that echoed and rang sharply around the pool. "I gave you my number. I thought you might call."

The shadow moved into the light, and took on the body of a man, medium height and build, with short, black hair and brown eyes. He was dressed in a very expensive suit. Not because he had to so for his job or because he was concerned about appearance. He seemed to be wearing it simply to show that he could afford to do so. He was regarding them all with a rather ironic smile, as though a joke were being played on them, and they had long missed the punch line.

"Is that a Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" He asked Sherlock, as he approached them.

Sherlock had been watching the stranger approach with all the caution of a lion looking at a hyena. He saw the man as the dangerous opponent which he was, and one who was his equal. There was, however, something that was not the same, something that Sherlock did not think that he could yet understand. He had taken John's gun, because he hadn't known what he would be dealing with, but he now he was quite glad that he had thought to take the precaution. "Both." He said, as he drew the gun and pointed it squarely at the man.

He was not in the least phased. In fact, he seemed to think that it was incredibly amusing. "Jim Moriarty, hi."

It was only then that everything clicked together, for both Sherlock and Brenna. They had already encountered this person before. Sherlock, when he had brushed aside Molly's new boyfriend as being gay. And Brenna realized with a horrified start that she had actually seen him twice: once at the hospital when he had been so sweetly trying to get Molly's attention, and nearly two and a half years before, when she thought she had found a good Samaritan in her hour of need. She realized that she had been totally deceived. And so had Sherlock, a fact which Moriarty did not fail to point out. "Jim? Jim from the hospital? Hmmm, did I really make sure a fleeting impression? But than, I suppose that was rather the point."

A moment of tense silence followed, the final critical phase in this great game had reached its height, as two opponents, of equal brilliant and capacity, met face to face for the first time. They had been circling around each other, testing each other's strength, seeing just how far one could push the other. Sherlock had been right about their being a final test; however, it was John's life which was now hanging in the balance.

Moriarty, for his part, seemed to be enjoying this, almost too much. When Sherlock looked around the room, presumably looking for the sniper that was targeting John, he quipped, "Don't be silly, someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty. I've given you a glimpse Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse, of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, see, like you."

After all that Sherlock had witnessed of Moriarty handiwork, from the serial killer cabby to the press-ganged suicide bomber, he knew exactly what he was referring to. "Dear Jim, please would you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim, would you help me disappear to South America?"

As Sherlock listed all of the crimes that Moriarty had arranged to test him, he smiled with evident pride. He evidently enjoyed hearing himself spoken of, much like Sherlock. "Just so."

In just a moment, Sherlock could not hide his admiration and interest. Here, he could see, at last, someone who was like him, someone who understood what it felt like to be so different from the other people in the world, someone who knew what it felt like to be bored. "Consulting criminal, brilliant."

Moriarty's self-satisfied manner only seemed to grow with Sherlock's words. "Isn't it? No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will."

Did Brenna simply imagine that his eyes seemed to flash towards her for just a split second, along with a smile of almost cruel satisfaction? She had said nothing up till this point for she somehow felt that anything she could say at this point would simply be ignored. But that did not mean that she felt more than a little on edge by Moriarty's presence, something about him jut seemed off.

"I did." said Sherlock, rising to the challenge of the last statement.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment.'

"Yes, you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did." Moriarty admitted. He came forward and his attitude abruptly changed, from that rather amused, self-sasitfed manner to one that was eerily warning and angry. His voice also rose in pitch, becoming sing-songy, which was all the more disturbing. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now. I let loose all those people, all those problems, even thirty million quid just to come out and play. Although I have loved this, this little game of ours, playing Jim from IT, did you like the bit with the underwear? Your girlfriend really seemed to think that I would be a great match for little Molly. Only ups the fun I was having when she didn't even recognize me from the first time."

It was the first time that Moriarty had even brought Brenna up, and despite himself, Sherlock stiffened, his grip on the gun tightening. Moriarty looked at Brenna, and it seemed that she was his next candidate to be mocked. "You really fell for my little act, didn't you? Both times. I knew that I was good, but if I can slip past your radar twice under completely different circumstances, I must be better than even I thought."

Brenna couldn't stop the shudder which skated down her spine when Moriarty turned the full force of his attention on her. "You were at my father's funeral."

"Yes, I was. Quite a joke, you not being able to get in because your family barred you. Especially when you consider that I was the one which they should have turned away. Yet, I was able to stroll right in without so much as a by your leave. I could hardly keep from laughing through the service."

Brenna stiffened. For a moment, she did not know whether to be angry or shocked. A terrible suspicion began to form in the back of her mind. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, shouldn't it be obvious?" said Moriarty, with fake surprise, "You can't even guess? Don't you know anything about what your father was doing before he died?"

"I was kind of absent during those last few years."

"Well, I suppose that's as good an excuse as any. To be simple in the telling, your dad found out to much. So, I'm afraid that he had to go."

Brenna had begun to suspect this when Moriarty had focused his attention on her. But actually hearing him say it, and with the mad joy of a psychopath, almost shattered her. She felt like she had been stabbed in the stomach. The sheer horror and shock left her numb. "You…you killed my father?"

"Yes, I did. In the end, it was really rather simple. Rig his car with some explosives; time it just right to look like accident. No body, no evidence, nothing that could lead back to me. Considering how very determined your father was to find me, the end of our fight was almost disappointing."

Brenna could not move or speak. That was probably of the best, as any enraged reaction might have spelled her death.

Evidently satisfied in the fact that he had just traumatized Brenna, Moriarty turned back to Sherlock. "People are so sensitive about this sort of thing, aren't they? It's a little surprising considering how often it happens and nothing can be done about it. You know all about that, don't you?"

"People have died." Said Sherlock, quietly.

"That's what people do!" Moriarty screamed. He resembled a maddened beast that had lost all sense of reason. His words were sharp, stabbing and harsh.

And it was in those words that Sherlock finally understood. Moriarty was like him, only he was his darker self. For just a moment, he saw what he might have been. And he did not like the image. He had always known that he was different from other people, in his thinking, his behavior, his very morals. But Sherlock did have morals, and he never broke them. He was now looking at someone who had none of those. Some part of him still might have admired him for the complexity of his crimes, but he was also repulsed by them at the same time.

"I will stop you." Sherlock said, and he had to confess himself surprised by the determination that he heard in his own voice.

But Moriarty's confidence was just as strong as Sherlock's. "No, you won't."

Sherlock's mind may have been focusing on Moriarty, but a greater part of his emotional side was more worried about for John. As there was clearly no more profit to be had from talking to Moriarty, Sherlock now turned his attention to John. "You all right?"

Before John could respond, Moriarty beat him to it. "You can talk, Johnny Boy." He said, with gleeful mockery.

John didn't like being so close to Moriarty while a sniper was aiming directly at the Semtex strapped around his chest. He seemed to have shut down all parts of his mind, except that of the soldier which he was. He didn't want to give Moriarty the satisfaction of seeing him frightened. Wordlessly, he nodded.

Sherlock had seen and heard enough. All he suddenly wanted to do was to get Brenna and John away from Moriarty. It was time to end this game. Sherlock held out the memory stick to Moriarty. "Take it."

Moriarty's eyes went to the memory stick, and he took it from Sherlock's hand with a great deal of interest. "Oh, the Burce-Pardington plans." However, that interest only seemed to last for a brief second before he flung the memory stick into the pool with decisive, "Boring, I could have got them anywhere."

Moriarty had had to venture past John in order to grab the memory stick from Sherlock, and he seemed to have completely disregarded John as a threat, but that was a mistake which he might have paid dearly for. John had merely been waiting for the right moment to strike. As soon as Moriarty's back to him, he lunged at him, grabbing him the shoulders and pinning Moriarty's arms to his side. "Brenna, Sherlock, run!"

The bright red dot which had been flickering so ominously over John's chest was now threatening both him and Moriarty. It was now threatening both him and the criminal mastermind. Of course, it was perhaps no surprise that Moriarty was not in the least fazed by this. In fact, he was supremely entertained, and he even burst out laughing. "Oh, good!"

"Your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, we both go up." Snarled John, in Moriarty's ear.

Despite John's screaming at them to run, both Brenna and Sherlock were frozen. Brenna, mostly because she couldn't really believe that John stood a very good chance of dying (John, who was something akin to an army tank and one of the toughest men she knew), but for Sherlock it went much deeper. John was willing, with no hesitation to die for his own safety. He had never had anyone be willing to do that for him before. And in a strange way, John's sacrifice made neither of them want to even consider running.

The only one who seemed to be completely unaffected was Moriarty, who seemed to consider the entire thing still very funny. "I can see why you like having him around. He's so touchingly loyal. But then again, people do get so sentimental about their pets. Oops"

Moriarty was also like Sherlock in that he seemed to plan for every contingency. In that case, he happened to have more than one assassin on hand. Two angry red dots suddenly appeared on the foreheads of Brenna and Sherlock, clearly putting them in the line of fire.

"You've shown your hand there, Dr. Watson. Gotcha."

John instantly let go, holding up his hands in surrender. Moriarty brushed off his suit, which had been imperceptibly disturbed by John's efforts. "Westwood." He chided sarcastically.

The last five minutes had been a critical game changer for Sherlock. It clearly meant that for Moriarty, this was a game he was not playing for any goal or material gain. He just wanted to play for the sport, to see how much of a match Sherlock could be for him. And as his former actions had more than proved, he was more than willing to use others and kill them for his own purposes. This was a game which could have only one winner in Moriarty's mind. And no matter how worthy an opponent he deemed Sherlock, the consulting criminal had already determined that it would be him.

"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?"

"Oh, let me guess." Said Sherlock, in a rather bored tone, "I get killed."

"Kill you? No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, one day. I'm saving it up for something special; I don't want to spoil it. No, no, no, if you don't stop prying, I will burn you." His face had returned to that disturbingly insane expression and his voice made Brenna frightened, despite her best efforts to control it. Even Sherlock felt himself put slightly on edge, a feeling that he was not at all used to. "I will burn the heart out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." Said Sherlock, hiding any uneasiness he might have felt admirably.

"But we both know that's not entirely true." Said Moriarty, knowingly, before he cast a significant glance in Brenna's direction. For just a split second, ice shot through Sherlock's veins. He hated the thought of losing John, but the very thought of not having Brenna in his life almost made him want to stop breathing. He had grown to depend upon them to much; he couldn't imagine what might happen if he lost them.

Whether or not Moriarty saw this moment of seeming weakness really didn't matter at this point. He already knew enough. He had abruptly changed mood and expression once more. "Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

Brenna could hardly believe her ears. He was just going to let them go? Than what had this whole thing been for?

Moriarty moved to exit by one of the side doors. Sherlock was keeping him in his sights all the time, never lowering his guard until Moriarty was gone. "Catch you later."

Moriarty's voice echoed one more through the pool, sing-songy and insane. "No, you won't."

Moriarty was gone, and Brenna couldn't help but feel an immense wave of relief wash over her. Sherlock also felt this, only it was displayed in a much more overt way. No sooner was his enemy out of sight than he dropped the gun, got on his knees in front of John, and began tearing the bomb vest off of his best friend. "All right? Are you all right?" he demanded, his voice frantic; he wouldn't be resting easy until he knew for certain that John was unharmed.

John, for his own part, tried to assure Sherlock that he was fine, only rather badly shaken. That wasn't the easiest thing to do however, when Sherlock was forcefully stripping the vest off of him. Nor was it enough to just have if off John, he had to throw it across to the side of the pool, just to get the thing as far away from him as he could.

Then, and only then, did Sherlock return to the business of trying to track down Moriarty. Grabbing the gun from the floor, he hurried in the direction Moriarty had taken. John seemed close to hyperventilating, most likely a combination of shock and the heavy vest he had been forced to wear. He was shaky, his legs giving out from under him, as he leaned against the door frame. Brenna was immediately there beside him. "You all right?"

"Yeah, Brenna. I will be."

"I hope you're right, because you look awful." John managed a pained laugh, before she asked, "How did you find yourself in this mess?"

John shook his head, getting some control back over his breathing. "No. I was just walking down the street trying to catch a cab, when I felt myself being grabbed from behind. They pressed a cloth over my face, laced with chloroform. It knocked me out. Next thing I know, I'm awake, with what feels like a ten pound weight on my chest, and that man, standing over me. He told me to go out there and say all those things to Sherlock. Everything else is a blur."

"And yet you were in your right mind enough to throw yourself at that psycho to save Sherlock and I. for that, I guess I owe you some thanks."

At this point, Sherlock breezed back into the room. Evidently, he had found no trace of Moriarty, but that did not make him any more relaxed. Indeed, he was pacing back and forth, clearly agitated and overwhelmed by the emotions of relief, worry, and adrenaline.

"You all right?" John asked.

"Me, yeah, fine." Said Sherlock, clearly lacking his usual eloquence. "That thing that you did… that you offered to do... that was, um, good." That came nowhere close to what Sherlock was feeling, but truth be told, it was the best he could come up with.

"That's Sherlock's way of saying thank you, I believe, John." Said Brenna, with a smile. And for once, Sherlock didn't bother to correct her.

"I'm glad no one saw that, though." Said John.

"Hmm?" said Sherlock questioningly.

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk."

"People do little else." Sherlock quipped, and then, he smiled as John, a true, genuine smile, that Sherlock really only reserved for Brenna or Mrs. Hudson, the people who he really cared for. He now knew without a doubt that John was included in that number. Friendship was not something he could logically quantify, that was why he tried to avoid it. Except in very rare circumstances where it didn't really matter anymore, only the person did.

It was enough for even John to see that in just a look. And he returned it with a smile of his own. By this time, the idea was all in their minds that they wanted to leave. However, when John got to his feet, they were greeted by the hovering, angry red dots of the snipers hovering over them once more. John groaned and Brenna muttered, "Not again."

A door at the far end of the pool opened and Moriarty stepped out. "Sorry, boys, I'm so changeable. It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue, you just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

Sherlock was still, as he watched the dots hovering over the bodies of his partner and best friend, like deadly wasps. His mind was moving quickly, and he came to the conclusion at once. If they couldn't continue, neither could Moriarty. He looked at John and Brenna, knowing that if he did what he knew he had to do, he would be putting them both in terrible danger. However, without any sort of hesitation, they nodded their assent. If they needed to be sacrificed in order to get rid of Moriarty, that was a sacrifice they would gladly make.

Knowing their thoughts, Sherlock resolved in his mind. He turned around and said, "And I believe that my answer has crossed yours." He aimed the gun at Moriarty, but than dropped his aim to the bomb vest at Moriarty's feet.

Tension hung thick in the air. Time seemed to freeze. Brenna and John waited breathlessly to see who would be the ultimate winner in this game, or if this would be the last play of all.

* * *

Well, that's the big twist. The fact that Moriarty killed Brenna's father is obviously the catalyst for a good deal of what will happen in Season 2. Brenna now has a personal reason to join Sherlock in helping to stop the criminal mastermind. I actually almost find Moriarty harder to write than Sherlock; he's so creepy.

Yes, I am leaving everyone on a cliffhanger. Of course, I think that we all know what happens, so it's not technically a stressful cliffhanger. Still, only two more chapters until the first series is over. I will be posting those chapters together, along with a little preview of what to expect in A Scandal in Belgravia.

Next chapter: The Great Game ends, almost by accident, in a draw. However, Brenna now finds herself with an entirely new burden, one that becomes even harder to bare when it becomes evident that Alice Bennett is keeping secrets of her own. Just what those secrets are will have an enormous impact on Brenna's future.


	16. The Draw

There it is, the final epic conclusion A Thief's Game. Of course, in some ways, it might also prove to be just another beginning. Enjoy!

The Draw:

The only ones who did not seem to be feeling the tension were Sherlock and Moriarty. They continued to face each other coolly, neither backing down or advancing, merely staring each other.

And then a sound sliced through the tension, bringing the drama to a rather abrupt halt. There really isn't a lot of drama that can be milked out of the disco classic _Stayin' Alive_. The three of them had no idea where the song was coming from, looking at each other in evident confusion. However, Moriarty's expression showed that he knew where it was coming from. It only took a few seconds for them to realize that the song was coming from Moriarty himself. Brenna had to confess herself less than impressed. Moriarty really couldn't have made a better choice for his ring tone?

"Do you mind if I get that?" asked Moriarty, after a moment.

"Oh no, please." Said Sherlock, as though this were a completely ordinary conversation, never minding the snipers, the bomb vest or the fact that one or all of them could be killed in a second. "You've got the rest of your life."

Moriarty answered his phone. "Hello? Yes, of course, it is, what do you want?" He looked over at Sherlock, and mouthed, "Sorry."

"Oh, it's fine." Sherlock mouthed back.

Moriarty seemed rather impatient with this latest interruption of his fun. He turned his back on them. A few seconds of tense silence followed as they all waited for what would happen next. They had no idea what was going on, but they all knew what their lives could very well hinge upon Moriarty next actions. Even so, Moriarty's next words caused them all to jump slightly. He whirled around and screamed with animalistic intensity. "Say that again!" His voice dropped abruptly, to a snarl of pure insanity. "Say that again, and know that if you are lying to me, I will find you and I will ssskin you." It was no idle boat. Brenna had a troubling impression that he could indeed skin a person if he had the means.

Moriarty continued to listen intently to what the person was saying, and then he said, "Wait." He lowered the phone, and he almost seemed to be considering his next move. He came forward to the bomb vest. Sherlock tensed, his hold on the gun tightening, prepared to fire if Moriarty made a wrong move. At last, Moriarty decided. "Sorry, wrong day to die."

"Oh, did you get a better offer?" Sherlock asked, only half sarcastic.

Moriarty looked down at his phone, and then aimed a half smirk at Sherlock. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock." He turned away from the threesome, and headed back to the door which he had originally entered from, speaking as he went. "So, if you say you have what you say you have, I'll make you rich. If you don't, I'll turn you into shoes."

At the last second, before he exited the room, and without even turning around, Moriarty snapped his fingers sharply. Instantly, the red sniper targets vanished from the foreheads of Sherlock, John, and Brenna. The pool became as still as when the whole thing had started. They were alone. It was over. The round had ended, improbably, in a draw.

They exchanged glances that were by turns immeasurably relieved and confused. "What was that?" John finally inquired.

"Something changed his mind." Said Sherlock, "The only question is, who?"

"If we're meant to find out, we will." Said Brenna, "Right now I don't really know if I care. Let's get out of here. I don't know about you two, but I could do with a stiff drink."

Little could any of them have suspected the identity of their unintentional rescuer. Nor could they have known that The Woman who had placed the call to Moriarty would be having a very big impact on their lives in the near future.

* * *

The very next day, when Brenna came into work, Alice called her into her office, saying that she had something important to discuss with her. When she closed the door so that no one else in the Yard could hear them, she said, "Brenna, would you mind telling me why you happened to be at the same pool where Carl Powers died last night?"

Brenna looked at her. "If you had thought there was anything suspicious going on, you could have set off my anklet. I was well outside my radius, if you recall?"

"That isn't necessarily the question I want answered." Said Alice, "Brenna, I let you go with Sherlock outside of your radius, because I trust you with him. Strange as it seem, I know that when he's with you, you won't be going off into mischief on your own. Until last night, when you both happen to show up at the pool where Carl Powers died, just a few days after that was a major case he was working on."

"How did you know Sherlock was with me?"

"Security footage has you arriving at the pool at midnight. However, the cameras on the inside of the pool itself were covered. So, do you care to explain what's going on?"

Brenna, seeing that there was no way around it and knowing that Alice would probably find out sooner or later, decided to just speak her piece.

"Well, all right. Sherlock and I found out who was really behind all of those bomber cases, the Vermeer included?"

"Who would that be, if I might ask?"

"He called himself Jim Moriarty."

Alice's eyes came up to meet her's. A look of utter seriousness appeared on her face. "Jim Moriarty? Brenna, are you sure?"

"I don't think that's something I would forget." Alice leaned back in her chair, her expression growing troubled. "Do you know him?"

Alice seemed to take a moment to answer, and when she did, she chose her words carefully. "I know _of_ him. There have been rumors flying thick and fast about him for ears now. Some reports say that he has extensive connections with every known active terrorist organization and cell in the world, providing them with weapons and funding, even occasionally ideas for their attacks. Some even postulate that he was involved with the 9/11 attacks in America. However, there are others who say that one man couldn't possibly have his hands in so many pies all at once, especially one that has never been seen or has no known agenda of his own. Moriarty is said to not be a real person, but a front for a great many people, all of them connected by a vast organization."

"Trust me; I know he's a real person."

Alice stared at her for several seconds, and finally asked, "Brenna, what did he say to you?"

Brenna was unsure how to answer. Should she tell Alice that Shane had already told her about his suspicions about her father's death? Or that she had overheard her conversation with Mycroft Holmes? She saw now that they had to have been talking about Moriarty, and that somehow there was a connection between the consulting criminal and her father's death. But if she were to state it in those terms, how much information would she get? Alive was clearly trying to keep something secret from her, something important. If she wanted any definite answers, she was going to have to ask her questions carefully.

"He told me that he killed my father, to keep him quiet."

Silence greeted this statement; Brenna stared hard at Alice, trying to see what she could pick up from her face. She saw nothing beyond shock. "You mean that Moriarty was responsible for the car accident that killed your father?"

"Yes, and I'm sure he wasn't lying. He almost seemed to be bragging. I now remember that he was actually at my father's funeral. He even spoke to me, though I really had no idea who he was at the time."

"I see." Said Alice, "Brenna, I don't know what to say. If I had had any idea…" Said trailed off and shook her head. "How does that make you feel?"

"I don't know. Part of me is still in shock. I honestly can't wrap my mind around the fact that someone could have murdered my father. I don't know. I expect I'll be angry eventually. Right now, I just feel helpless."

"And you don't like feeling helpless." Said Alice.

"I also feel almost let down. My father was a police officer. He was so dedicated to his work, and if no one even bothered to investigate his death after he was murdered, it makes me wonder if anyone even respected him."

No sooner had the words left her mouth, than she saw for a brief second, Alice's face flashed for just a moment with a deep, almost incriminating guilt. It was not just the guilt that she was concealing something from Brenna, it was also the guilt of someone ho was betraying a very good friend. It was gone in a moment, replaced with genuine sympathy and concern. But it was all the confirmation that Brenna needed. She knew that very often the deepest secrets could reveal themselves in the most subtle of ways. And now they were being revealed in Alice. Alice knew something about her father's murder, and she wasn't telling. That meant that Brenna was on her own.

"I wish there was something I could do to help, Brenna. Really I do."

"Well, what can you do?" said Brenna, "I don't think that Moriarty is going to just come out and say it again."

"Are you sure that you're all right? Are you sure that you don't want to take a few days off."

"No, you know me. In times like this, I need to be doing something. Otherwise, I'll just sit and brood. That won't lead to anything good."

"If you're sure, then. I might need to get a statement from you later. Lestrade will also want to know about this."

"John and Sherlock are already telling him."

"You might want to get down there, then."

"I was going to. I just needed to tell you everything first." And she had gotten more than enough. The seed of mistrust that had first been sown a few days ago now started to grow. Alice had always been the one person that she could trust. Now, she was beginning to wonder if that trust was more filled with shadows than she had ever wanted to believe.

She got up to leave, but she was stopped by Alice saying, "Brenna, I promise you, however long it takes, we'll get justice for your father. I'm behind you in this, every step of the way." Alice's face was set with determination, and Brenna knew that she meant it. But it still didn't help matters .She was still grateful, and so she nodded and tried to give her a smile, before walking out the door.

Once she had left. Alive took out her cell phone and entered the number that was becoming all too familiar to her. "Yes, it's me. We have to talk. Look I don't care if you're in a meeting with the Russian Ambassador this afternoon. Make time. Brenna suspects something."

* * *

So, it seems that Alice is keeping more than a few secrets. But just what are they? As Sherlock Holmes himself would say, it is a mistake to theorize before one has all the facts. And it turns out that neither Brenna or even Moriarty, knows everything.


	17. A Deal

A Deal:

_Two and a half years previously…_

Alice did question her sanity sometimes. It was part of the territory of being a police officer. What sane person would choose a profession where they had the potential to get shot at for a living? But she had never questioned her sanity more than now, when she walked into the prison where Brenna Ryan was being held to serve out her five year sentence for bond forgery. This could very well be a dead end. If Brenna didn't agree to this deal, the whole situation with her father could potentially get worse.

The only reason that she was here was because a friend had asked her to take Brenna under her protection. However, he had asked her to frame it in the form of the present deal; otherwise there was a chance that Brenna wouldn't accept it. She had had a hard time convincing her superiors to accept that this would be beneficial to the department. She could only hope that this would work.

However, she also had to admit that there was something about Brenna Ryan. She had chased the former thief for nearly three years. They hadn't met since that first time in the cemetery, but she felt that she knew her better than most people. Brenna was persistent, smart and her charisma was second to none. To think what she might have been had she followed a different path. There had been something about Brenna which had spoken to her to in a deeper way than any other criminal she had ever tracked down. She did not deny that Brenna had to suffer he consequences of her actions, but she was beginning to wonder if she actually belonged in a prison.

So, for better or for worse, here she was waiting for Brenna in the prison's receiving room. When she came in, Alice couldn't help but see the significant difference which had been wrought in her after only a month of prison. Brenna seemed listless operating on autopilot. The spark had left her eyes and they were red and raw, from crying for her father. She didn't even seem to have lost any weight, but her body really didn't seem to agree with the enforced sedentary lifestyle of prison. But, Alice didn't want to say it. Instead, when Brenna sat down, and she dismissed her guard, she said, "Brenna, orange really isn't your color."

Brenna managed half a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I tried requesting something more to my taste, but for some reason they wouldn't listen to me." She looked at Alice, as the Inspector sat down. "It's not really that I'm pleased to see you, Inspector. But I'm already convicted. Your work is over. Why are you here?"

"I need your help."

I beg your pardon?"

Alice took out two pieces of paper and pushed them across to her. "Bonds. My department has been tracking these for a few days. We think that they're forgeries. But no one seems to know how they are. Can you?"

She regarded Brenna closely. She saw how her eyes became suddenly brighter. Life seemed to come back over her face as she leaned forward over the bonds, studying them intently. This was clearly what she lived for. At last, she said, "It's the coloring along the edges. It's off by a few shades. Not only that, but the quality of the paper is a dead give away. Most bonds like this are made on paper that smooth and the sheen always has a distinctive look and smell to it. These bonds are made on rougher paper, though the sheen is the same. It's a common trick for foragers. They hope that by getting one aspect flawless, no one will look too closely at anything else."

She suddenly realized what she was saying. She stopped and stared at Alice in confusion. "Why are you asking me this? You obviously would have had people at your station who could have told you this."

"Don't you think that you're meant for some more than this, Brenna?"

"What?"

"You aren't meant to be behind bars, Brenna." Said Alice, "You're supposed to be out there, in the world, doing something. That's why I'm really here. I have a deal for you."

"A deal? What kind of deal?"

"I can get you out of here. You, on a work release. You would be working with me, in London, as an advisor on White Collar crime."

Brenna looked at her with raised eyebrows. "You want me to help you to track down people for the crimes that I used to commit? What sense does that make?"

"Not a lot, I grant you. But then again, you know that not all people follow your code of conduct, Brenna."

"I should know that better than anyone." Said Brenna, quietly. "You haven't said what the conditions are?"

Alice braced herself. Here it was; the issue that would make or break the deal. "You wouldn't be completely free to do what you want, Brenna. The terms of the deal require that you wear a tracking anklet, and when you're not with me or at the Yard, you'll be confined to a radius of two miles. That's so you won't have the chance to run again."

Brenna was silent. She was obviously considering the deal, but at the same time, Alice still really couldn't read her expression. That impairment on her freedom would be the main difficulty that Alice knew she would have to overcome. If there was one that she knew about Brenna, it was that she valued her freedom. She didn't like to have to answer to anyone.

When Brenna still didn't answer, Alice was certain that she was not going to get through to her. Strangely, she felt almost disappointed. "Well, take sometime to think about it. Let me know." She got up and went towards the door. However, she was stopped at nearly the last moment, when Brenna said, "Okay, I'll take it."

Alice stopped and turned around. "What?"

"I'll take the deal." Brenna managed a smile. "You think that I want to be stuck behind bars for the next five years when I could be doing what I'm actually good at?"

"Well, in that case," said Alice, smiling with no small amount of relief. "Let me be the first to welcome you to the Force."

* * *

_Present Day…_

Alice had been thinking a lot about that first deal that she had made with Brenna. In light of her encounter with Moriarty, Alice knew that the stakes had gone sky high. She sometimes felt guilty that she had never told Brenna the entire truth about why she had made that deal in the first place. She had been sincere in the fact that she had wanted to give Brenna a second chance to prove herself. But there had been another reason, one that she hadn't dared tell her. So far, the whole scheme that had been concocted to ensure Brenna's safety had gone smoothly. Now, that was thrown into chaos, especially if some of the latest information that she had acquired was anything to go on.

That was why she had been forced to meet with him in person; she had to admit that she didn't really like the elder Holmes. He had an arrogance about him that made her skin crawl. She didn't like dealing with him because she never really felt in control. However, she had little choice. She needed information that Mycroft alone had access to.

Another thing that annoyed her about Mycroft was that though he insisted on secrecy in their meetings, his flair from the dramatic could be extremely irritating. A secret, covert meeting in a café seemed far less suspicious in Alice's mind than Mycroft's methods., which included taking people away in mysterious, unmarked cars to out of the way locations. In this case, it involved taking over an entire car of the London Eye for their conversation. Alice had had to avoid rolling her eyes when he had told where and how they would be meeting.

When she arrived at the London Eye, she found that the arrangements had already been made, and she didn't have any trouble finding where she supposed to go. There was Mycroft Holmes, sitting in one of the seats, with his usual impeccable suit and ever present umbrella. "I do hope that this is worth the thirty minutes I'm taking out of my schedule to be here." He said in greeting, as the car began moving.

Alice crossed her arms and looked at him levelly. "You do. Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

Mycroft smiled that coldly polite smile of his that Alice had seen so many times before. "True enough, I suppose. You are telling me what I already know. I know that Moriarty confronted Sherlock last night. I also know that Brenna and Dr. Watson were present."

Alice had long since given up even wondering how Mycroft had access to information that was less than twenty-four hours old. "I see. Did your sources also happen to mention to Moriarty told Brenna that he was the one who killed her father."

Mycroft's eyes grew wide, and it was clear that Alice had actually told him something that he hadn't known."

"Really? So, she knows the truth?"

"One layer of it, at least."

"Did you tell her the rest?"

"Mycroft, do you really think I'm that much of an idiot? If I had told her that I had known from the start, what I still know now, everything that she and I have built up will have been lost. She wouldn't trust me again, and this whole thing will have been for nothing."

"How do you know that she won't try and go off to hunt Moriarty on her own?"

"She's not stupid, Mycroft. Once the shock wears off and she really starts to think about it, I've no doubt that she will be angry. But she has never taken a job that she knew she could never complete. Brenna knows that Moriarty is a man that she cannot take down alone."

"But what if she finds out the rest?"

"And what would happen if she did? I know that you created the official story of the accident in order to protect her, but don't you think at some point, she and her family deserve to know the truth?"

"And just how much of the truth should Brenna know? I grant that she may not go after Moriarty, but she will start to dig, and as persistent as we both know she is, there is a fair chance that she will find out everything. Do you really think she would just sit still and quiet here in London if she were to find out that her father was alive?"

Alice couldn't answer that. Mycroft wasn't expecting her to. They both knew what Brenna would do. She had loved her father too much to just sit idly by if she believed him to be in danger. And Oliver Ryan had been in danger for a long time, by his own choice. He had been the one who had first started to seriously investigate Moriarty as a real threat and the first to put a name to the face of a real person. He had also been willing to make the ultimate sacrifice in order to keep on investigating that secret. That sacrifice had been to fake his own death so that his family would be kept safe.

"Such a course of action would defeat the entire purpose of what all this has been for." Said Mycroft, after a few minutes. "I made a deal with Oliver. I would keep his family safe as long as he continued to try and find out what he could bout Moriarty."

"And that included me getting Brenna out of prison." Finished Alice, "Because he didn't trust prison security."

Mycroft nodded, his face growing grim. "Brenna cannot find out especially not now. If she does, Moriarty's mocks at a pool might become a genuine threat to her very safety."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's part of the reason why I agreed to meet with you. Oliver got in contact with me a few days ago. He said that he was on the verge of uncovering something big, quite possibly something which could lead definitively back to Moriarty. If his cover is exposed now, than everything which we have worked for could be nothing."

"Did he tell you what it was?"

"No, he only said that he would make sure that I would retrieve the pertinent details when the time was right."

Alice let out a heavy sigh and rubbed her forehead in frustration. "So, where does that leave us?"

"I'm afraid that you already know the answer to that. We can't change the fact that Brenna knows, but we have got to make sure that she doesn't find out anything else. It's for her own safety and that of Olivier."

Alice knew that Mycroft was right. She hated the idea of having to continue the lie, but she knew that it was necessary. "We may also have a bigger problem than that to deal with. I'm fairly certain that Moriarty has a leak somewhere in the department."

"What makes you think so?"

"There have been strange goings on at the Yard lately. This recent rash of bomber cases was only the latest in a long line of events that I haven't been able to connect until now. The bomber had precise details about Sherlock's whereabouts during the challenges which he put to them. He seemed to know exactly where Sherlock was in the process of solving them, and he was able to use that information to contact him at exactly the right times. The evidence of a leak only seems to be on certain cases, cases which I am certain now could trace back to Moriarty's involvement."

"That would explain how Moriarty would be getting his information. Do you have any idea who it might be?"

"No, but now that I think Moriarty might be involved, I almost regret giving Brenna the task of finding out who it was."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps, but than again, perhaps that could work to our advantage. If Brenna is absorbed in that little project, she might be less tempted to delve too deeply into her father supposed death."

"And yet, she will keep searching, Mycroft. That is something which we cannot prevent."

"Than we shall simply have to try and point her snooping into the right direction. Her perseverance might yet be an advantage if the cards are played right."

"I don't know if Olivier would appreciate the idea of his daughter becoming involved in this."

"Now that Brenna knows about Moriarty's connection with her family, she has already become involved. Indeed, if the events of last night are any indication, she has been involved ever since she began her romantic liaison with my brother. As there is very little chance of the two of them becoming unattached, I think that we will both have to accept that Brenna is now playing the game as much as Sherlock. That being the case, we should make use of it."

"You have to be careful how you think to use Brenna, Mycroft. I chased her for three years, and have worked with her for over two. She is the smartest, most determined woman I know, and very much able to bend the rules if she sees fit. She just might be resourceful enough to outwit Scotland Yard and the entire British government."

"As much as I don't want to contemplate that, it's very true." Said Mycroft. "Brenna's talent for making mischief is almost unmatched. Only my brother could outmatch her. No wonder they are so good together."

"If I wasn't hearing you better, I'd say that you were actually paying both of them a complement."

"Maybe I was, but you did not hear it from me." The ride was coming to an end, and therefore the end of their meeting.

"So, we simply wait and see what happens, then?" said Alice, as Mycroft got to his feet and headed for the door.

"For now, I believe that is all we can do. Both Moriarty and Sherlock have reached a draw. We'll wait to see which one makes the first move. Brenna will surely react, and then we will know how best to proceed. In the meantime, allow her to search, but be aware of what she is searching for."

"I'll do my best."

"Good. I hope you know that I think this meeting was not a total waste of time. However, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to attend with the Bulgarian Ambassador. I am the only thing that could be standing between them and the possibility of civil war."

"Of course you are. Do give them my best."

As Mycroft disappeared into his black car, Alice began to make her back to Yard. She did not feel at all comforted by this. Her meeting with Mycroft may have gone smoothly, but she knew that Brenna couldn't be controlled. She somehow had a feeling that all their former days were over. She also felt that, for a time, she and Brenna could very well be working on opposite sides, to protect the same secret.

FINIS

* * *

There it is, the real twist that this whole first series has been working up to. Not only is Brenna's father still alive, but he is working in secret to expose Moriarty. Now that the secret is out, you can be sure that there will be a lot of twists and turns coming up. But those are for another story to reveal.

So, that ends the first series of Sherlock and A Thief's Life. I would like to thank everyone who has read or favorite or reviewed. Writing fan fiction wouldn't be nearly so much fun as it is without knowing that fellow fans were reading what my crazy imagination comes up with. I sure hope that you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did writing it, and that you will be along for the second series of A Thief's Family Secrets (A Scandal in Belgravia), A Thief's Fear (The Hounds of Baskerville), and A Thief's Fall (The Reichenbach Fall).

That being said, there will be a slight break between series, as I need to focus on some other stories which I am starting on fan fiction in other genres, as well as trying to rest up a little from this story. However, that time hopefully won't be as long as it is taking to make the third series of Sherlock (they build up to that excruciating series finale and then make us wait _TWO YEARS_ to find out what's going to happen? If they weren't going to start filming in March I would probably be tearing my hair out right about now. Okay, rant over). And just to whet your appetites for A Thief's Family Secrets, there is a mini chapter being posted right after this one, which contains a few sneak peaks of what to expect.

Again, my heartfelt thanks to everyone who is reading. See you in the next series.


	18. Previews for A Thief's Family Secrets

As I promised, here are a few teasers for A Thief's Fear, the story which will take place during A Scandal in Belgravia. Hopefully, this will be an exciting preview of what I am planning, as well as a few thoughts as to why I will be doing the episode the way that I am.

1. The Past

For anyone who has ever wondered how Sherlock become the way which he was (and considering the amount of Sherlock childhood stories on this website, I'd say that a good many people do), I will be exploring my own version of the events of his childhood. I am going to say right off the bat, that part of my problem with some stories I have read about Sherlock's childhood, a lot of them seem to make the kid Sherlock like his adult self shrunk down to childsize. I just find that irksome. I can accept that Sherlock was a gifted little kid, maybe even experiencing some flashes of deductive genius. However, I find it hard to believe that he was always the emotionless, cold man that we see in the series. I like to think that he was actually quite curious and mischievous, the kind of kid who would get in trouble, but be so cute or clever you could never really stay mad at him for long. I will be exploring what made his curiosity turn to deduction, and what made him lock off his emotions from the rest of the world.

2. The Mother

Along the same note of Sherlock's past, we will also be meeting one of his parents. You remember in A Study in Pink, Sherlock and Mycroft get into an argument about Mummy. I've always wondered why they say Mummy, but there is no mention of their father. It made me think that they both want their mother's respect, but their father is a man who is never spoken of. From out of these musings, the character of Justine Holmes was born. She is not going to be what you would expect of a mother to people like Sherlock and Mycroft. I can say that she is the one who they got their deductive reasoning skills from, one of the few who can command Mycroft and one of the few who Sherlock will confess is more brilliant than himself. In short, she is the undisputed matriarch of the Holmes clan, and a woman that no one should cross.

3. Family, Friends, and Lovers

Sherlock and Brenna's relationship will, of course, be progressing. Their relationship will begin an intimate phase fairly early into the next story. Some of their scenes will be slightly mature, but I will be sure to warn of that at the beginning of the chapters. But they will not be the only ones who will be getting a little love. I revealed that John will be getting his own girlfriend, in the form of Elizabeth Ryan, Brenna's sister. Elizabeth is also a new character who will have a big role in the next series. The other pairings that I will be exploring are Mycroft and Anthea and Molly and Lestrade. I am just a hopeless romantic, so I don't like anyone in my favorite shows to be alone. If there isn't a pairing that makes sense, I make one up.

4. The Woman

Okay, Irene Adler. I have saved her for last, because I have the most to say about her. Let me just say right off the bat, that I do not like Irene. It's no refelction against Lara Pulver, who I thought performed the role brilliantly(being naked for an entire scene with the absolute perfect confidance that she exudes earns a lot of points in acting, if you ask me). I just don't like how she was written. It's like the writers really couldn't decide whether or not Irene and Serlock were actually attracted to each other. As a foil for Sherlock and an interesting opponent that wasn't Moriarty, I liked her. But as a character that I could actually root for, she just does to many things within the course of the episode that make me dislike her. Plus, I find the last scene where Sherlock rescues objectionable, not because Sherlock rescues her, but because it's unrealistic. I mean, are we actualy supposed to believe that Sherlock was able to fly to a middle eastern country (with no one knowing), infiltrate a terrorist cell (with no one questioning why this new comer has an accent, doesn't speak the language and has piercing blue eyes), and then manages to fight off and presumably kill off everyone in the cell (who are highly trained fighters with guns) with nothing but a sword? For a show that really tries to keep itself grounded in reality, that scene was just to jarring for me to enjoy. I can say right off the bat that Sherlock is not going to be rescuing her in my version of the episode.

So, those are my objections on Irene. That being said, Irene is going to have a big role in A Scandal in Belgravia. She is also going to be very nasty. She has a very personal connection with Brenna, and a personal grudge. Combine that with Moriarty's psychopathic tendencies and you can imagine the result. There might be some torture before it is over, probably nothing to graphic as I really know nothing about torture, and I don't particularly want to, either.

There you have it, then. Four little hints as to what to expect in Season Two of A Thief's Life and Sherlock BBC. I am looking forward to continuing this journey. Thanks for reading.

FantasyBard


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